


stare through the mirror of the self, reflect the face of someone else

by bigchickcannibalistic



Series: there's a heartbeat under my skin [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/F, Original setting, names of places and plants are made up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 17:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10667580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: “Personal bodyguard,” she continues before Betty has time to say anything. “The highest tier of that you can imagine. Then higher than that.”“Who are they, a monarch of an entire continent?”The woman positively glows. “Better.”Betty would be lying if she said she isn’t intrigued. This has the potential to be the most intriguing job she’s been offered in the past three months.Or the bodyguard!AU no one asked for but we all need





	stare through the mirror of the self, reflect the face of someone else

**Author's Note:**

> This got way too long so fast, holy shit.  
> Um.. hope you enjoy?
> 
> Title from "Ditto" by Miracle of Sound.

She is 10 when she first saw an aquarium. It was large, took up most of the wall and followed the carpet like lights follow the motorway – sometimes the lights flicker like that too, making the tacky orange (fake) fur carpet blotched with dark spots. But the next time she visits they’re fixed, good as new.

Polly says Miss Grey fixes them, like how she takes care of the colourful mix of fish inside.

Betty wonders why Mister H doesn’t just invest in an auto-feeder. Max showed her a few models when she asked, but they didn’t have an answer other than _“it’s just his way.”_ With how calm Miss Grey seems after feeding the fish, Betty suspects it’s more to do with her than with Mister H, and she can kinda get behind that. Miss Grey’s sweet where others would be cross with her questions and persistence; she deserves any chance of calm she can get.

Since seeing it, Betty goes to the lobby on the 16th floor whenever she can’t sleep, or whenever she’s had a particularly bad day and her thoughts wouldn’t leave her be, wouldn’t stop for even a few licks of sleep – when even Polly’s soothing humming wouldn’t lull them. Sometimes, like tonight, she’d drag Polly with her, unable to be alone even if the fish were there. Polly’s presence kept her breathing when silence crept close, pressing against her chest along with something else, something burning and acidic.

She doesn’t know what that other is but she _hates_ it – hates how it makes her feel, how it makes her hands shake and become restless, hates how it consumes her thoughts and still leaves them scattered.  

But then Polly takes her hands and plays with them, or she starts tapping a pattern on Betty’s legs, pausing intentionally on some parts until Betty taps a response. Sometimes there’s a quiet song following the pattern, something Polly’s heard during the day or an old one of Max’s if she’s feeling nostalgic. Sometimes she’d talk about something weird she’d heard during the day, or a stunt she saw one of the other trainees pull.

(It usually ended badly for the trainee. Like that one time Lance tried to run across the monkey-bars instead of swinging between them and slipped and fell into the mud-pit below. It was a shame, Betty had thought to do the same thing.)

It helped – just Polly and the tapping and her voice and the colourful lights falling behind them and the low sounds of the filters – it helped calm her, keep her _there_ and not in her head, alone and _lost_.

\----

She’s 14 the first time she breaks a bone during spar practice.

It isn’t completely her fault.

Her opponent has been taunting her for a while now, in subtle ways that only Max seems to pick up on. (And there’s nothing they can do because it’s not their class, despite them being Betty’s and Polly’s unofficial mentor.) The guy “accidentally” drops the bar while handing it to her during endurance trials; he “wasn’t looking” when he landed too close to her that it caused Betty to misstep which forced her to do the whole set of forms _again_ ; “forgot himself” when he hummed too loudly during their studies and broke her concentration.

Honestly Betty wouldn’t have held it against him if he didn’t repeat the same shit _every. Damn. Time._ There’s so much a girl can take before she snaps something. (And Polly’s worried glances at her ruined practice sticks are becoming more pointed. The girl’s close to asking if she should take care of the guy since he’s technically in her group but Betty’s adamant on handling this herself.)

It’s the second month of his so called accidents that they’re paired up for sparring. Which is a little odd given their age difference but the instructor is insisting Betty’s group learns about fighting with a disadvantage. As if they haven’t already done that. Betty’s back is still recovering from yesterday’s lesson with the blindfolds.

After the first few punches Betty thinks they might actually have a civil sparring match. (Y’know as civil as those go.) She should’ve known things were going to hiccup from there.

He feinted left, and got a swift punch in. It landed just below her eye, finding the tender spot from last week’s sparring match with Polly. The sting’s enough to make her falter back and bring tears to her eyes.

“Awww, is the baby gonna cry?”

And Betty sees red. She doesn’t remember the steps it took for her to break his guard, but she did and she landed such a good punch that he dropped to the ground, clutching at his nose and howling. Belatedly Betty realised she couldn’t move her fingers.

So there they were sitting in the medical wing. The douche nursing a large ice pack over his face, and pointedly not looking at Betty. Not even the spikes of pain as the doctor reset Betty’s knuckles manages to dull her proud smile.

\---

At 17 Mister H personally adds Betty to the hottest mission they’ve got, presumably because due to recent developments with the neighbouring city-states the Organisation is underhanded. And this wasn’t a mission they could simply go and say _“nah, pass.”_ She could see that much.

So they send her and three other agents – two with at least three missions behind their back and another rookie like herself. Send them in a god-forsaken mountain range where the epicentre of the latest scandal was hiding. On paper it was a routine get in, make a distraction, take him out, make it look like a freak accident and get out type of mission.

The mission itself?

A. Fucking. Mess.

Just a whirlwind of poor hacking, wrong choices during infiltration, a failed distraction and their positions getting compromised. Twice. And to top it all off the intel about the guards – their gear, their training – was flat out. Wrong.

( _And that never happens,_ a voice inside Betty’s head whispered. The implications make her skin crawl, make her breaths come quick and short, make her so fucking terrified.)

Betty doesn’t know how she managed to get into the inner sanctum of the ridiculously large private resort; doesn’t know where her team is or if there even is a team left. The only thing she does know is the pain in her shoulder, the weight of the blood seeping into her undershirt; how her hair sticks to her temple; the weight of her pistol in her shaky hand, the numbness of her fingers as they squeeze around its handle; the alarms blasting incessantly and what her target looked like.

She also knows this well enough to spot the target on the other side of the hall, running just beyond the ornate glass walls. She knows just how many steps it’d take her to reach the optimal distance for the shot. Knows that glass isn’t bullet proof (through painful experience of scorching pain, stomping boots and blood curling screams.) And most importantly:

She knows how to pull a trigger without blinking.

What she didn’t know, couldn’t have really known before that moment – before watching the man fall down into a heap of tablets and electronics, glass breaking and blood pooling around him so _so_ fast. Before then she couldn’t have known how she’d react to her first kill – her first _murder._

Nothing.

Betty looks up at the sunset, the wind carrying down the sounds of explosions some ways behind her. She waits, counts the breaths until her pick-up arrives, gun clutched in her hands, breaths coming out _one two three._

She felt nothing.

\----

Back at base – it wasn’t home, it never felt like home despite it being all she knew; she couldn’t bring herself to call it that – Max rushes to medical and Betty can see how anxious they were. She doesn’t even have to think before she raises her good arm in invitation; getting an armful of cinnamon and mint that is so _Max_ it nearly makes her cry on the spot.

She does cry when Polly comes back with a fresh cut right above her left eyebrow and bruising below her neck, and outright _ignores_ the nurse’s directions, making a beeline for Betty instead, and engulfing her in the tightest hug.

“Nothing, Poll,” Betty wails, hiding her face in Polly’s neck. “I just stood there, and felt nothing.”

Polly simply shushes her, hand combing through messy blonde hair.

“You’re okay,” she repeats over and over.

\----

Betty thought that as she went on more missions she would feel something. Remorse, guilt, sadness, sympathy, satisfaction, _anything._

But after each one she still felt the same.

Nothing.

She won’t think about it. That’s what Betty decided after choking her latest target – a playboy that played too many hearts and broke the wrong one at the wrong time. It won’t bother her if she didn’t think about it. She won’t lose sleep over it, won’t lose energy. She could concentrate on other things like how Polly had become distant ever since the Greenhouse mission.

(A mission that could’ve cost Polly her life. The target had an accomplice who wanted to beat Polly to the punch by amping up the fertiliser for the most poisonous plants in the greenhouse. The target was already dead when Polly got into his wing of the greenhouse.

And she had inhaled enough poisons for chemists on the 14th floor biolab to have a field day.)

More times than not Betty would go to the 16th floor lobby in the dead of night and find Polly curled up before the aquarium (still sparkly clean thanks to Miss Grey). The sight of her bloodshot eyes, holding back a tiredness that Betty couldn’t begin to unravel – it made Betty’s heart ache something wicked.

\----

She’s just over 23 when it all goes to shit.

Don’t get her wrong things have been gradually going to shit. Less missions, less funding, layoffs left right and centre (she had come close to crying when she returned and Miss Grey’s office was bare. Her palms took the brunt of the damage, fingers etching in as sharply as the knives in her target) which led to less organisation during missions. Less order.

More deaths.

Polly was the first to realise that, and Max pointed it out not too long after. Betty should’ve seen it coming, Polly was showing the signs so obviously Betty would’ve been blind not to see it. It still blind-sighted her when Polly woke her up one afternoon and said she was leaving.

Betty wanted to go with her, to follow the closest thing she had to a sister and leave everything that made her who she is behind. God she wanted to so badly. And yet… she didn’t. And Polly – with a heart so big underneath the stoic and crisp mask – only smiled in understanding, offering one last hug and a promise of _“we’ll be in touch.”_

Betty had never felt anything as painful as watching someone go and take a piece of you with them.

And yet she experienced that twice in the same amount of months.

(Max had been adamant on taking her with them, to work as a private investigator on the other side of the world. They came close to socking her on the spot when Betty refused.)

Roughly three months after her 23rd birthday Betty didn’t have a choice in the matter.

Mister H, wanted in 27 states worldwide, (allegedly) filed for bankruptcy, disbanded the Organisation and disappeared. Everything she knew, the place where she grew up, the people she grew up with – dead and gone. Leaving only a gym bag of measly belongings, a third of which are weapons and ammunition for the same.

With it, she disappeared.

There was no place for her here anymore.

\----

None of her jobs manage to keep her for long. The most she’s managed was four months as a bodyguard for a mafia boss before his people turned around and started shooting. There was sticking with the job and then there was staying alive. Betty very much likes being alive, thank you.

That job was probably the most fun she’s had over the last two years.

(Bodyguard, bouncer for not one but five high-class clubs, consultant to several squads and two invitations from highly covert special units.

She turned them all down. Some physically.

None of them could still her restlessness. She knew that after the first two failed attempts.)

Her stint as a contract killer afterward proves unsatisfying, with the urge to kill her contractor rising with each contract she sent her. And her targets were fairly simple, requiring maybe a week’s worth of recon and planning that boiled down to ‘show up here and shoot’ 9 out of 11 times.

It’s not like she needs the money. She has enough saved up to buy a small island in the south, and retire with martinis and ridiculous flowery hats. Sometimes she imagines that, lying awake in the middle of the night and staring at the ceiling of her latest safehouse (which were dwindling at an alarming rate.) Imagines herself sitting on the porch of her beach house, the warm breeze filling her lungs, a ridiculously large hat covered in flowers shading her face from the sun and just _relaxing._

She scoffs, and the image fades from her mind, replaced by a cracked ceiling she keeps saying she’ll repair and never does. _We don’t get happy endings and long sunny days at the beach._

She closed her eyes, and wished for dreamless slumber.

\----

“Elizabeth Cooper?”

That isn’t her name. Scratch that – it’s the name of a dead person. She’d know because she worked really hard, and invested a lot of money to make it so.

So where the fuck did this redhead hear it?

“Hey.” Aforementioned redhead slams her palm against her table, rattling the display for her game of 3D chess, which in turn causes her pieces to glitch-out for a second. (It was something she picked up over the last couple of weeks. Playing 3D chees in the relatively secluded tea shop in town. It helps her think, like the aquarium did back at base.)

(God she misses those fishes.)

“That wasn’t a question you know,” the redhead says, sounding just a tad bit unnerved. Probably because Betty’s still figuring out her next move instead of giving the woman her full attention.

Not that she’s _not_ thinking about what to do with the redhead. Killing in public spots – too troublesome long-term. Get the redhead to follow her to a secluded area – unlikely; if she knows who Elizabeth Cooper is, she knows what Elizabeth Cooper does.

Information hunting?

_Ding, ding, ding._

“You sure? It sure sounded like one.” Betty could move her bishop – it is the last one she has, and the opponent’s queen would have a field day evading it. But the rook could take out her knight she needs to protect her own queen.

“Great, you know how to talk,” she bites back shortly. “That’s an immediate step-up from the last guy.”

“He couldn’t talk?”

“I imagine it’s hard to do if you’re dead.” Betty looks up, hand slowly circling around her cup of tea, coiled for a quick throw. The redhead doesn’t look threatening – physically. If Betty’s supposed to have an interview with the woman, she’d probably be scared shitless from how cold her eyes looked.

Then again looks _are_ deceiving.

“A tragedy,” Betty offers, quirking her brow.

“Maybe to someone.” The woman sits down across from Betty. Her eyes land briefly to the chess board. One of her brows twitches but that’s the extent of her reactions to the chaos on the board (Betty never said she was good at chess.) Looking up she clears her throat. “My employer wants to meet with you.”

_This_ again. “Not interested,” Betty sighs, looking back at the board. Her hand is still on the cup. She isn’t dumb enough to think it would be over that easily. The woman doesn’t seem the type to accept ‘no’ for an answer.

“You don’t even know what it’s about.”

“Want me to kill someone? Find them and _then_ kill them? Threaten them with bodily harm? Et cetera, et cetera.” Betty looks at the woman through the holographic chess pieces. “You know the name of a dead woman. _Found_ a dead woman. There are easier people to find for those jobs.”

“Then logically I’m not here because we want you to kill someone,” the woman says like it was the most obvious thing. “Personal bodyguard,” she continues before Betty has time to say anything. “The highest tier of that you can imagine. Then higher than that.”

“Who are they, a monarch of an entire continent?”

The woman positively glows. “Better.”

Betty would be lying if she said she isn’t intrigued. This has the potential to be the most intriguing job she’s been offered in the past three months. Mostly she’s curious who has enough resources to spend to dig up a name that’s been dead for over four years now. And the redhead knows how to pitch something. She would be a whirlwind at a marketing firm.

“All right, I’m curious, miss?”

“Call me Cheryl. And I sincerely hope you’re better at your job than you are at chess. For both our sakes.”

Betty laughs. “Let’s leave that for your boss to decide.”

\----

“Aren’t you supposed to have black hair?” Cheryl asks as they finish securing a flight.

“That was a wig.”

\----

For a woman who values the highest amounts of discretion, and who’s paranoid enough to meet in person rather than talk over the phone or video call, Veronica Lodge chooses to have their interview at a small restaurant at 3 o’clock in the morning.

With literally no one else as back up as far as Betty can tell. Not even Cheryl who had practically driven her there so she’d be on time. That woman is either very confident or utterly mad.

(For fuck’s sake you don’t spend countless thousands of dollars on finding a dead assassin, then have your HR manager fly to the other side of the continent in the hopes that aforementioned dead assassin was up to a job as a bloody bodyguard just because you’ve seen shadows on your window.)

Yet the woman sitting in the corner booth, and slowly eating a bowl of something, doesn’t look anything other than the definition of calm.

As Betty sits across from her, her eyes snap first to Betty, then to somewhere behind her then back to Betty.

Not so calm after all.

They sit there in silence, with Veronica eating and Betty’s eyes fixed on her bowl because she doesn’t know where to look and staring at Veronica would be considered rude.

“I can get you a bowl if you want?”

Betty snorts but shakes her head. “I’m good, thanks.”

“So,” Betty starts when it looked like Veronica was done with her meal. “You went through a lot of hassle to get me to come to some tacky restaurant in 3am.”

“It’s not tacky,” Veronica defends. Out of thin air she produces a cup of pudding. Chocolate. Unbelievable. “Trust me, I know tacky. I’ve been to the tackiest tacky to ever tacky.”

“If you say so.”

“Also,” Veronica starts around a mouthful of pudding. She pauses to properly swallow it. “I didn’t plan for us to meet this… late? Early? Who even knows?!”

Betty’s brow goes higher, the corner of her lips following close behind. Definitely not as calm as she projects.

“Anyway, I’m rambling.” She takes another spoonful of pudding. She seems to think over her words, eyes watching Betty (come to think of it, they never left her since she sat down, did they?) Veronica gestures with her spoon, drawing small circles. “You should stop me when I do that.”

“Nervous habit?” Betty offers.

Veronica snorts, and Betty doesn’t expect that from someone who looks as elegant as Veronica does at 3am in a tacky restaurant. “Sure let’s go with that.”

She scoops up the remainder of her pudding, then carefully lowers the bowl to the side so she could clasp her hands together. “Cheryl said you’d be working as my bodyguard, correct?”

“She made it sound like you were the world’s most important monarch.”

Veronica smiles wickedly, obviously beyond pleased. “Queen V or bust, I say. Sadly I’m not up for world domination. Just the respect that comes with owning the world’s best. Spy. Network.”

Betty raises her brows dubiously. She’d have heard of such a network, heard of a Veronica Lodge if that were the case.

Veronica scrunches up her nose, and the first thought that comes to Betty’s mind is: _adorable._ “It’s still a work-in-progress, though.”

“How much?”

“I’ve got it all figured out. And the funding. And the location. Just gotta round up the people, y’know? Broaden my horizons, expand my clique.”

“Please tell me your clique doesn’t just include Cheryl Blossom.”

Veronica smiles guiltily, index fingers of both hands raised up. “And two more people.”

Betty covers her face with her hands. She slumps back into the booth, groaning mildly as she does. Lovely. Just lovely she goes to the other side of the continent to work for an adorable, elegant woman who wants to make a spy network of all things and has roughly 30% of it planned out.

Good. Fucking. Job, Cooper.

“Why did you hire me in the first place?” Betty shoots back, lowering her arms. At Veronica’s confused (puppy dog – _stop it_ ) look, she elaborates, “There are cheaper bodyguards that keep their mouths shut. Hell I know ten of them!”

“But I don’t want ten bodyguards that will stand like ominous statues around me.” Veronica’s demeanour hardened. Gone was the humour; instead determination burned through those brown eyes as she looked at Betty – always looking at her, why isn’t she unnerved by that?

_It’s cause you like it, isn’t it, Cooper?_

“If I’m making this network happen – and you can bet your pretty ass I am – I want the best in the business to have my back. Someone who knows all the ways someone could come for me even before they do. I want some who could do that at 3am while inebriated so much they can’t see straight.

“To put it simply, Elizabeth Cooper.” Veronica squares her shoulder, chin high, eyes unblinking. “I want you.”

Betty smirks, chest swelling with pride and something else. Something she hasn’t felt in four long years. Or maybe even longer.

“Betty.”

“What?”

Betty leans forward, hands resting just shy of Veronica’s clasped ones.

“If we’re working together, you can’t use my full name all of the time.” She shrugs her shoulders briefly, eyes looking down for a moment. “Betty’s good.”

“Betty.”

And there is something profoundly erotic in the way Veronica said her name. Betty files that away to be examined for another time.

\----

(“Oh that won’t be necessary.”

Betty furrows her brows. “I disagree. You’re the most vulnerable at night. Even with the most advanced security systems.”

“That’s not what I was going to say. But thanks for making me feel I’ve spent my money well.”

“You hired me to tell you these things.”

“No, I didn’t.” Veronica stops. She gives a considering tilt of her head. “We’ve known each other for maybe an hour and you’re already trying to use my words against me? I’m impressed, Betty.”

Betty stays silent.

“I still think I’ll be fine tonight. Or any other night. I’ve got it covered.”

“…Fine. It’s your life on the line, Miss Lodge.”

Veronica gets a faraway look in her eyes, hands curling tight. “Don’t remind me.”

“Hm?”

“Do Remind Me. Y’know – the app that helps schedule tasks? Just thinking I have several things I need to add to it.”

“At 4am?” Betty asks dubious.

“Yeah, when else is the perfect time to make little tasks you’d otherwise forget about? Also since when are you a blonde?”

“You wear a wig that one time and suddenly everyone’s got that picture of you.”

Veronica winces in sympathy. “Okay, yeah, it does sound shitty when you put it that way. If it’s any consolation you rocked it. Super hard.”

“Thanks??”)

\----

“I thought you said you had a location?”

“I did.”

“The why are we here?” Betty gestures to the apartment complex they’re approaching. It doesn’t look anything special, reminiscent of the older building style she’s fairly certain died out before she was even born.

“We’re looking for our location,” Veronica clarifies, voice vibrant and chipper. She’s walking briskly enough that Betty has to actively increase her pace to keep up with her.

Betty rubbed at her eyes. She is getting slightly irritated by Veronica’s nonchalance. “Miss Lodge –”

“Veronica.”

“– the definition of having a location is it already being _in your possession,_ ” Betty stresses as they enter the building and – yeah the place has seen better days. Which is somewhat odd since this part of town doesn’t look as run down as it could be.

“Tomato. To-mah- toe, Betty.” It has been roughly 4 hours since they parted ways in front of the restaurant, with Betty declining a ride to her apartment. Betty is used to working on little sleep, but that doesn’t mean she’s chipper about it. Veronica is exuding the energy of someone who had a full night’s rest.

“Urgh.” Why did she agree to this? The woman clearly doesn’t have those 30% fleshed out as much as she led on. If the speed with which Cheryl had contacted her about a list of recommended people is anything to go by, Veronica may as well have said she had flat out _nothing_.

So why is Betty here, chaperoning Veronica Lodge through barren apartments without any real-estate agent in sight?

Maybe she’s curious about Veronica. Curious as to what made a successful lawyer walk away from her career, and replace it with the convoluted mess that is building a spy network. Wonders if her sleep schedule is so fucked up from being a lawyer that it keeps her up at 3am every night or if there was another reason for that restaurant meet up. (It’s something she _shouldn’t_ be wondering about.)

“Come on.” Veronica gestures to the spacious apartment, sunlight streaming through the windows behind her. Her smile is ecstatic _._ “No great city was built in a day.”

“No, but I bet when they said they had a location they actually _did_.”

Veronica pouts – honest to God pouts. _Who is this woman?_ But Betty blinks and it’s gone, like a vagrant shadow. In its stead is a frown and a calculated look.

“Are you grumpy because I woke you up early?”

Betty blinks dumbfounded. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she fires back before she collects herself. “With all due respect, Miss Lodge.”

Veronica smiles as if she’s just heard the best thing. “Okay grumpy, we’re buying you coffee right after this.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” Betty mumbles. She glances around the apartment, noting where there the walls were crumbling down, where they’d need to change the flooring. Completely ignoring Veronica’s prodding silence. With a sigh, she explains, “Too restless. It’s bad for concentration.”

Betty turns back to Veronica, who hasn’t moved from her spot, and is looking at her quizzically again. “Unless you want to die because your bodyguard couldn’t concentrate enough to shot the perpetrator.”

Her lips quirk upward briefly. “Tea, then?” she offers with a voice so soft it brings out a pang of nostalgia.

“We don’t have to.”

“Yes we do.” And that’s the end of it.

 

By 10am Veronica has dragged them off to a small coffee shop with a roof garden. By the time their drinks arrive – coffee for Veronica and an herbal mix tea for Betty – Veronica has finished her call with the real-estate agent (apparently she has been sitting on the building, waiting for Betty to give a yay or nay.)

(She gave it a reluctant yay.)

“You seriously want to start a pysay network in an apartment building?” Veronica looks up from her coffee, waiting for her call with the moving crew to connect. She smirks playfully.

“It’s discreet and unsuspecting.”

“It’s screaming to get raided by police.”

“Nah.” Veronica waves her hand lightly, bracelet glinting in the sunlight. “This is a black hole for those kind of police interventions. Maurice! How are you, how’s Joseph?”

Betty shakes her head, drinks her tea, and keeps an eye on their surroundings.

\----

“Where. Is. Maurice?” Betty huffs. Her arms are shaking from the sheer amount of boxes she’s carrying to apartment 302. Or the Tinker’s Corner as Veronica had dubbed it. Betty dumps the boxes onto a beaten up couch, uncaring if they hold precious gemstones that break if you look at them wrong.

(Yes, those are a thing. She broke two on a sabotage mission one winter.)

“His son’s auditioning today.” Veronica strolls through the door-shaped hole in the wall Beatrice had hammered out. She’s typing something furiously on her holo-display. She still easily avoids the scattered boxes.

“Oh,” Betty breaths out. She does recall Veronica’s thrilled shrieks when the tall, bulky man mentioned it, and how quick Maurice was to positively gush about it.

“Yeah, okay, fair enough.” Then Betty plops down next to the boxes, resting her head against the back of the couch. This was why she has so little things; it’s a nightmare to carry around.

“Chin up.” Betty opens her eyes to see Veronica lean over the back of the couch, dangerously close. Her Sky-Glasses – the source of the holo-display – dangle between her fingers. There’s enough light in the afternoon to make out the blotches of black beneath Veronica’s eyes. Veronica has skilfully been hiding them with make-up if Betty is noticing them just now.

(Then again Betty tries not to stare at Veronica’s face.)

“We’re getting some help with these.” Veronica knocks on one of the boxes, causing whatever metallic inside to rattle ominously. She gives it a cautious glance.

“ _We?_ ” Betty raises her brows incredulously.

“I’ve been organising,” Veronica fires back.

“Yes, you’ve been sending your _bodyguard_ away to carry boxes upon boxes of stuff. You do know that’s the opposite of what I’m supposed to be doing, right?”

“Oh please, like I’m so helpless that I’d perish during those ten minutes of your absence. Maybe of boredom. Okay, I won’t get _killed_ during those ten minutes of your absence.” Veronica raises her brows, daring Betty to challenge her.

“What if I was gone for 20? 30?” Betty doesn’t know why she’s stepping up to the challenge. It’s not even a conversation they’re supposed to be having. But it is so refreshing.

Veronica shrugs lightly. “If someone came after me, I’d shoot them.”

Betty stared at her. She didn’t expect that. “You have a gun?”

“Doesn’t everyone at this point?” Veronica’s quick to look away, but Betty caught it – the misty, haunted look in her eyes. She’s seen it enough times to recognise it with minimal detail.

“All right. Who’s this help we’re getting?”

Veronica blinks, gathering her thoughts. She inhales, and holds it in. Holding herself together. Betty straightens up, hand hanging between them, unsure whether she should touch Veronica or if it’ll make things worse.

“Miss Lo–”

“Andrews,” Veronica exhales in a rush. She glances at Betty, eyes guarded but clear, before she puts on the Sky-Glasses again. She scoffs immediately. “And he’s late already. Fantastic.”

Betty drops her hand discreetly. “I did say Archie’s got a problem with time.”

“That you did.”

Archie Andrews used to work for one of Betty’s targets – the one she dubbed Tall, Blonde and Narcissistic. (Not willingly, Andrews just couldn’t escape with his family being held hostage.) Betty nearly shot him when he dropped from an air vent of all things right on top of a guard she was gonna take out. After the mission Betty dragged his half frozen ass back to the Organisation since he’d freeze in the middle of the lake. She didn’t really expect him to stay there and work. Relocating his family took priority, yes, but afterward she thought he’d disappear back into society with them.

(But looking at him, on the long nights he spent in the lab frustrated and still pushing to make his latest thingamabob work, Betty could see something familiar.

And it’s not like there’s much of a place in society for people like them – restless souls, damned to the bone and breaking.)

Betty hums, finally aware how tight her fingers have curled. The sting in her palm feels all too familiar, and frankly she didn’t miss it. Veronica’s furiously typing at her display. She’s frowning at something on it but Betty can’t see what exactly. Then her lips quirk in a pleased smirk.

“Speaketh of the blood ox.” Veronica swipes something on the display. Her phone, lying forgotten on the table, springs to life.

_“Hello?”_ Archie’s voice roars through the speakers. Betty winces at the volume, barely hearing a _“sorry”_ above her. The next time he speaks it’s more bearable.

“You’re late, Andrews.” Veronica’s voice is calm, short and professional. So much unlike how she talked to Maurice or herself. (Betty doesn’t know what to do with that information.)

_“Sorry, I got turned around in town. There’s a lot of construction happening.”_

“Excuses, excuses.” Veronica gestures with her hands, beckoning Betty to follow her out the door.

\----

It’s been a while since Betty found herself atop a building without a sniper rifle as company. Her hand instinctually goes for the missing weight, and she keeps looking over, gauging the distance between the other buildings. Imagining targets, and calculating where she’d have to stand and shoot to hit each one.

Subtly putting the largest plants at those spots. Music’s filling the silence – a random radio station Veronica turned on the moment they unloaded all of the plants. Though with how frequently Veronica’s humming to the songs Betty suspects it wasn’t random at all.

As Betty passes her to fetch another box of yellow Dustafinas, she spots Veronica shimming lightly to the newest song. Betty barely supresses a snort.

_Dork._

The sheer number of plants stacked near the door makes Betty envious of Andrews setting up his lab. And wonder for the nth time just how much money has Veronica saved up for this endeavour. If she isn’t spending it on various equipment reminiscent of that the Organisation had, she’s buying furniture and pictures and plants like _she_ is the one moving in here.

“Go on, ask,” Veronica says suddenly, ringing clear amid the music. Yet she’s still concentrated on planting the colourful Baelvetics in the same, huge pot. “I know you’re dying to.”

“Not dying to. I am mildly curious, though,” Betty amends, dropping the Dustafinas next to their pink cousins spread along between the trees. (The annoyances Betty managed to lob Maurice’s helper to carry up. No way in hell was she taking those things up here by herself.)

“So ask.”

“Do I really need to ask if you already know what I’m asking about?”

“Naturally,” Veronica says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe it is, but the speed with which she says it, it makes Betty still her tongue.

She lets the music fill the silence, carefully shuffling the Dustafinas into empty pots, pushing them down until her fingers are two knuckles deep. Once all of the Dustafinas have been planted, Betty moves back to drop the box in their designated box pile – which is coincidentally near Veronica’s table.

“I like hearing you talk,” Veronica admits, quiet enough for them to pretend she didn’t say anything. And she’s so insistently looking at the Baelvetics when Betty looks over her shoulder that maybe that’s what Veronica wants.

Betty’s been around her enough to know Veronica’s good at keeping things to herself.

Betty shrugs. _What the hell, eh?_ “And I like being in shade.”

“You like –” Veronica looks up, brows furrowing in confusion. “What does that have anything to do with you asking about my garden?”

“I wasn’t asking,” Betty says, a smug smile on her face.

“You know what I mean!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Lodge.” Betty moves to the small table they’ve set up earlier today, and plops down to hide from the sun before she gets a headache. And she’s smiling, far too pleased at the opportunity to tease Veronica. It’s been a while since she had the urge to tease somebody.

Veronica scoffs. “All right, fine. Be that way, Betty.” She raises her hands, as if she’s dismissing this entire conversation. She moves to the other side of the roof, where a lonesome tree still needs dirt pilled on to be stable.

Passing by, she gives Betty a pointed, unamused look. “I’m going to enjoy my garden and you can stay in your shade and sulk.”

Betty shakes her head in disbelief, but Veronica doesn’t see it. (Nor does she see Betty intensely watching her backside as she crouches down.)

_Really, Cooper?_

“I’d hardly sulk.”

“Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that.” Veronica doesn’t look up from her work. She doesn’t need to really. The hints of her smirk speak enough for themselves.

“You have receipts?” Betty leans forward, legs crossed and elbow on her knee.

“Oh you can bet your pretty ass I’ve got receipts. I’ve got all of the receipts I’ll need.” Veronica says confidently. Betty watches her, watches how she leans over the pot to press dirt on the other side of the tree, one hand on the bark for balance; watches as she pats her hands on loose olive pants, leaving several splotches of dirt. She watches until Veronica looks her way. Watches, with only an eyebrow raised in challenge to Veronica’s smug smile.

Betty doesn’t look away when Veronica straightens, but rather she drinks in the sight of her tight shirt shifting. Only then does she shift her gaze to the tree. She blinks and slowly, ever so slowly a smirk forms on her face.

Betty leans back, crosses her arms low, and waits for Veronica to approach the table. Just as Veronica wrestles the water bottle open Betty clears her throat none too subtly.

“Miss Lodge?”

“Yes?” Betty’s eyes shift back to Veronica, finding her ready to drink from the bottle.

“Your tree’s crooked,” Betty says innocently. She watches Veronica catch herself, and swallow (not that Betty’s eyes linger on the movement of her throat, no, nope, nuh-uh.)

“Which tree –” Veronica quickly looks over her shoulder, following Betty’s nudge of her chin to the tree she just worked on. “Goddamn little shit.” Veronica tightens her hold on the bottle, causing water to splash both the table and Betty.

A moment of silence. Then Veronica looks back to see Betty shaking water off her wet arms, blouse soaked.

“Shit. Sorry.” Veronica says lightly, almost… breathily? Betty glances up but Veronica’s moving to the box pile. Still Betty could swear Veronica’s cheeks looked darker.

 

Veronica’s pointedly not looking at Betty while the blonde’s wiping her shirt – because neither of them brought a spare, and Betty’s not bothered enough to ask Archie for a spare (yes he does have one. It’s become the norm with how many of his inventions blow up.) The last thing she needs is his sputtering at this.

With a sigh, Betty tosses the rag on the table.

“My therapist used to say I should get a hobby,” Veronica murmurs. She’s looking at her feet, arms wrapped around herself in what one would define as loose. But her fingers are wound into her shirt, and easy enough to spot despite obvious efforts to hide them.

“…Therapist?” Betty strives to keep her voice light, harmless. Who is she to judge Veronica for needing a therapist? With the shit she’s seen, Betty’s certainly overdue for a talk. (Not that she hasn’t tried, back at the Organisation. It’s just that they’ve helped nothing.)

“Mhmm. We finished our sessions what – four, five months ago?” Veronica looks up to the sky. Her fingers are still holding onto her shirt, and now that she knows she should be looking Betty can see how her shoulders are tense – rigid, really, so as to not give anything else away.

“Okay,” Betty offers simply. She doesn’t react at how quickly Veronica looks at her; doesn’t really change her demeanour as Veronica’s eyes stare at her, searching for something, anything to hint at judgment, deceit. How many times has she had to do that? How many times has she actually allowed herself to confess?

Her shoulders are what give away that she’s relaxing, slowly falling back. Then it’s the small twitch of her lips. Veronica moves back to the Baelvetics pots, hands loose at her sides.

“And Cheryl hates these red Baelvetics.” Veronica’s voice flows with amusement. Betty breathes out a relieved breath. “So naturally being such a great friend I plan on planting as many as possible.”

Betty chuckles, opting to sort out the Pohkodre vines. “Of course you are.”

“So,” Veronica drags on at the same time Betty’s walking past her, too synchronised to be a coincidence. “Do you have a hobby? I won’t judge if it’s knitting or making paper figurines or fishing.”

“What’s wrong with fishing?” Betty lowers the crate close to the railing.

“It’s boring???”

Betty rolls her eyes, thankfully unseen. She continues to untangle the vines from each other. “Recently it’s chess.”

“Really? I figured you’d be into cards.”

Betty smiles at that, a mess of purple, gold and red flashing before her eyes. “I was.”

She hears Veronica knock her hands against wood, in part following the current song. “There’s a story there.”

“I killed someone with a deck of cards, Miss Lodge,” she states matter-of-fact. Betty raises the finally free vine, inspecting for any type of irreparable damage she might’ve caused.

“Okay, okay. Yeah, that can take the fun out of it.” A pause. Betty finishes patting the ground around the vine before Veronica speaks again. “Was it bloody?”

A checked carpet, bloodstained purple robe, golden cards spewed everywhere like dust. A distorted smile, glassy eyes and neon yellow hair. The stench of citrus perfume, mixed with sugary alcohol and blood.

“It’d be a shame to sully this beautiful day and your blooming garden with that.” Is all Betty says on the matter. Luckily Veronica takes the hint, and drops the subject

\----

“Keller, I thought you knew how to do your job. That is what we’re paying you for, isn’t it?!” Cheryl practically roars at the monitor.

_“Veronica, call off the Bloody Baroness before she loses her voice.”_

“Oh using theatre talk won’t get you brownie points, you Academy reject.”

“People _please._ ” Veronica bites out, voice commanding without actually raising it. Come to think of Veronica’s yet to yell at anybody. By the look on her face she was close to throttling both Cheryl and the monitor, rather than yelling at them.

The three of them are located in apartment 306, which was repurposed into Veronica’s office. There are still boxes that need to be unpacked, but most of the furniture has been bought, and all the necessary computers have been assembled (with only two blackouts courtesy of Archie’s tinkering with the power supply. Betty’s knees still hold dark bruises from that.)

“All right, to recap.” Veronica rolls her chair closer to the table, eyes dancing between Kevin’s video feed and Cheryl – standing just to her right and looking at the projection on the wall.

“You’ve found Jones, extended him our offer–”

_“And all the benefits he’d get, to sweeten the deal.”_

“– and he refused. All of it?”

_“More or less, yeah.”_

“What’d that termite call us?” Cheryl said, sounding like she’s putting great effort into not growling the words out.

_“That’s the thing. He was civil.”_

“Jones is always civil. Snarky, passive-aggressive, but ever civil,” Veronica defends. Despite her words she looks more agitated. Cheryl simply scoffed.

Kevin coughs pointedly. _“He… did make one demand though,”_ he says hesitantly.

Betty frowns at his wording, and turns around so her hip’s leaning against the table instead of her sitting on it. Kevin looks nervous on the monitor – he’s hiding it well, but there are ticks Betty’s learned to look for. Eyebrow twitches or excessive movement. Twitchy lips. Jaw clenching. Wandering eyes. Slight nose movement. Fluctuations in speech.

“Spit it out, Keller,” Cheryl snaps, clearly impatient. Or, Betty’s suspecting, that’s just how Cheryl is with people.

_“He wants to talk to Veronica.”_ A beat. _“In person.”_

Red flags. Red flags as huge as the projection on the wall.

“Why?” Betty asks, voice tight and rigid just like the rest of her. As far as she’s been told Jughead Jones is a hacker that could barely punch a person enough to break their nose. Cheryl’s been insistent on repeating how he’s a recluse, while Kevin whined how he’s basically invisible on the net. She could understand paranoia, but from the way Veronica spoke of him – spoke for him – it sounds like they knew each other.

Understanding doesn’t equate to her linking it.

_“He’s both a physical and digital hermit. The fuck if I know, ladies.”_

Betty exhales slowly, clicking her tongue – one two three. Glancing down she notes a thoughtful look on Veronica’s face. That she’s tapping her fingers against the table. She’s prone to do that whenever she’s lost in thought. It’s been near constant as of late.

“You’re considering it,” Betty states. Veronica hums lightly in agreement. It’s startling how, after two and a half weeks, Betty’s not even surprised by the answer. She rubs her eyes, briefly closing them. “Where does he want to meet?”

_“Funny you should mention. Bellow a willow tree in Sarksvoid Park.”_

“Oh my God, he is a legitimate hermit.” Cheryl covers her face, groaning through her fingers.

Veronica just laughs.

\----

(“I thought this was going to be a private conversation.”

“It is.”

“Then who the fuck is she?” Jones gestures at Betty in an exaggerated fashion.

“Non-negotiable, Mister Jones,” Betty states, eyeing his hand until he pulls it back.

“You hired muscle with manners, Lodge, I’ll give you that.”

“Come off it. She stays, we sit here, enjoy the beautiful day, talk, you take my offer and we both leave happy.”

“Well don’t you have it all fucking planned out? Just like college, eh?”

Veronica looks at him, most likely glaring behind her shades, lips thin.

“…Sit down, Jones. And start talking your end.”)

\----

Everything was so loud, so so _so loud_ and shrieking and exploding and crumbling. She couldn’t get away, could leave this maze of chaos, couldn’t find anyone else. They were calling her, begging her – mercy, end, help, death, run, kill _, kill kill._

_“Too slow.”_

Polly grabbed her face, staring through bloody eyes.

_“Why didn’t you shoot me, Betty?”_

Then blonde hair morphed into black, blue bloody eyes becoming darker and lips pulling into that trademark –

_“Betty.”_

Betty shoots upright. Her heart drums in her ears, breaths coming out in quick succession – so quick she feels like she’s choking, like she couldn’t breathe, stuck underwater –

_Freezing, floating, drowning, numbing –_

She quickly scrambles off bed, fighting the sheets until she outright tears them. She stumbles through the dark, colliding with her bathroom door strong enough to feel it through the haze. Her hands slap against the tiles until her fingers tap against smoother material. Her fingers tap insistently until the lights come to life.

She latches onto the sink, letting the coolness etch into her skin. Bloodshot blue eyes stare back at her, wet with unshed tears.

_Look at you._

Betty coughs, raising a hand a slowly pressing her fingers into the glass.

_Still a mess._

\----

“You look like shit.” Jughead – ever the civil hacker – points out the next morning when Veronica, and by extension Betty, comes to discuss potential clients.

Betty grunts out a response, purely to remain civil, but otherwise is focused on her tea.

She does look up to see one of Veronica’s concerned looks – the woman’s been sending them her way since the beginning of the week. It’s a wonder the woman hasn’t simply stopped, and asked her whatever it is that’s bugging her. ( _It couldn’t possibly be because you look like a sleep-deprived mess that’s drinking unhealthy doses of tea, Cooper_.)

Maybe this one’s the one. The drop that spills the cup.

But as it has been with the others, Veronica looks back to what Jughead’s pointing furiously about. Betty takes a large gulp of her tea, and pretends she doesn’t taste disappointment.

_We need more honey._

\----

She’s watching mindless TV after another bout of unsuccessful sleeping, when her phone pings. At two in the morning.

Betty stretches from her couch and groans, finally noticing that maybe she _should’ve_ changed position those 30 minutes ago. No use whining about it now. Her fingertips graze the phone a few times before she manages to scoop it up between two fingers. Carefully she balances her phone as she slowly brings her arm back.

It slips in the end; luckily it doesn’t land on her face.

The ping was for an email. And email from Veronica no less – then again who else would send her an email this late. (Jughead notwithstanding. Betty’s positive he doesn’t sleep and lives off of coffee and energy drinks.)

She has hoped it would be from Polly. Their emails have become far and few between, as opposed to the weekly updates they’ve sent during the first year on their own. They helped Betty get through nights like these, and much worse.

_God,_ she hopes Polly’s all right. She’s tempted to just outright ask Veronica to look into that.

Speaking of –

 

On a scale of 1 to Veronica fucking Lodge how likely are you to send an email asking to meet at your workplace in the wee hours of the night and just. Not. Show up.

Betty huffs, counting backwards from 20. When she’s done, she pushes off the wall, and enters the building in the hopes that Veronica had simply arrived early and gone in without telling her. Instinctually her right hand creeps back, around her holster.

Lo and behold there’s light coming from Veronica’s office, though it’s more subdued than what’d Betty would assume the woman needs to work. Slowly, Betty walks to the open door, gun ready and held steady near her hip. Back against the wall, she peeks into the lobby.

It’s empty, save for the coffee table and sofa overflowing with boxes.

Betty looks to the left, toward Veronica’s office proper, and sees the source of the light. That one weird looking lamp Veronica insisted on buying at the start of the week. _“It’s modern art,”_ she’d argued.

Looking through the office doorway with the door still needing to be fixed after Betty barraged through it thinking Veronica was screaming in alarm and not at a cat video. (At least Veronica looked adorably sheepish afterward.) Anyway Betty holstered her gun at the sight of an empty room. Well empty aside from a slumbering Veronica Lodge.

Who she escorted home just after midnight; who apparently didn’t think it important to call her bodyguard for this little escapade because what could possibly happen, right? It’s not like she hired a former top-dollar _assassin_ as a bodyguard because someone might you know _want her dead._

_What am I going to do with you, Veronica?_

The woman’s curled up in an armchair scotched in the corner of the office – _“My own little nook,”_ Veronica had declared, beaming up at Betty so much it was impossible for her not to smile back. She’s curled up, tablets scattered all around her, and what Betty’s sure are her Sky-Glasses thrown on the small table. The closer Betty gets the more she hears the rhythmic, little snores; every exhale blowing strands of hair off her face, only for them to fall back.

Too adorable.

Before she knows what’s happening, Betty’s moving those pesky strands off Veronica’s face. When she does realise, fingers skimming Veronica’s cheek, Betty’s face hearts up, and she quickly retracts her hand. Thankfully Veronica doesn’t wake up.

“What is wrong with you, Cooper?” Betty mumbles, shaking her head.

_“You are experiencing an elevated temperature.”_

Now Betty is a professional. All right? Just remember that. She’s a professional. And professionals don’t scream _“holy fucking shit,”_ un-holster their gun and point it at the fucking computer screen because they heard someone talk behind them.

Then again professionals rarely do expect the computer screen to have a pixelated golden bust, with white circuits and equally eerie white eyes, wave back at them with a smile.

_“Greetings. I see you’ve received my email.”_

“What the flying fuck?!”

“Wha – Whuz’happ’ning?” Veronica asks, which causes Betty to practically freeze in place. She looks down just as Veronica groggily looks up from where she’s half fallen off the armchair. She blinks, eyes slowly narrowing but still very much staring at Betty – who’s still pointing her gun at the monitor with whatever that is.

_It’s probably an AI, you idiot. You’ve seen them before._

_Yeah but not outside supercomputers and server rooms._

“Betty?”

“Yes, Miss Lodge?” Betty has no idea how her voice is so calm when she’s shaking inside. But good job, Betty.

“Why are you here?”

“Because your AI sent me an email. Impersonating you by the way.”

“Oh.” Veronica shuffles back until she’s properly seated on the armchair again. She runs a hand through her hair, stifling a yawn with the other. “Then why are you pointing your gun at her?”

“Her?” Betty asks before she can stop herself.

Veronica gestures with her hand. “The AI, silly.”

“Ah. Well she may have startled me.”

Veronica quirks her brow, and Betty could clearly see how her amusement grew to the point where she started snickering. Snickering that turns into a laugh– a full body laugh so severe, Betty lowers her gun to move closer should Veronica fall off the armchair again.

“Bianca startled you – oh God I can’t breathe.” Veronica coughs to try and control her laughter. It lasts long enough for them to share a look before Veronica’s laughing again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry it’s just – so funny.”

_“I apologise for startling you, Agent Cooper.”_

Betty holsters her gun so she could properly cross her arms, and glare down at Veronica. “Funny, funny. But I believe _this_ ,” Betty intones, and points back to Bianca, “is something worth mentioning at an interview for your bodyguard. So that I don’t accidentally shoot your bloody AI.”

_“You were about to shoot me despite me being blood-free.”_

Betty looks over to Bianca, disbelieving. “That’s not what I meant.”

_“I am aware. I was attempting at a joke.”_

Betty stares back at Veronica with a tired expression.

“Sorry, not sorry? I wanted to lure you in first. Make you intrigued and curious.” Veronica offers a smile. “Can’t do that if I show you all the cool parts right at the start, can I?”

“Miss Lodge, it’s been close to _three months_.”

_“52 days, 22 hours and 40 minutes.”_ Bianca chimes in. _“I omitted the seconds for your convenience.”_

Betty shakes her head, looking expectantly.

Veronica just shrugs helplessly, a delighted smile on her face.

\----

(Veronica stifles a second yawn mid-explanation.

“You’re going to bed.”

“Can’t go if you’re already there, Betty.”

She sighs. “A _proper_ bed, Miss Lodge, despite your stature allowing otherwise.”

“Whoa, hey hold up. Hold up there, Betts.” Veronica raises her hands, frowning sleepily. “First of all, I’m the perfect size and general perfect amount of perfection –”

_I’ll say._

“The word perfect’s too frequent in that sentence.”

Veronica pouts.

“No offense, Miss Lodge.”

“I’ll let that slide, only because Bianca freaked you out.” She smiles.

“She didn’t _freak me out._ ”

“You had a gun pointed at her!”

“I was worried for your safety!”

“Awww, that’s so cute.” Veronica’s smile turns…. Goofy????

“…It’s literally my job??? You hired me for this???” Betty stares surprised.

Veronica snaps her fingers, as if she _forgot._ “Oh shit, you’re right.”

“All right. Okay.” Betty pinches her nose. “Bed. Right now.”

“Oh yeah, that reminds of my second point –”

“Save it for tomorrow. _Please_.”)

\----

The last thing Betty’s expecting at six in the morning is insistent knocking on her door. It sends her barely lucid brain into overdrive and before she knows it, going purely by habit, she has her gun out, her thumbs feeling up the safety, and she’s got her back pressed against the door.

She glances through the spyglass, and releases the breath she was holding in at the sight of red hair and too big sunglasses.

“Cheryl,” Betty greets, voice scratchy, eyes narrowing from lack of sleep. (It’s barely been three hours since she led – _dragged_ – Veronica home.) She must look like a mess. Compared to Cheryl, there isn’t any doubt.

“Aren’t you a sight?” _There it is. Mystery solved._ _Thank you Cheryl Blossom._ “Are you going to let me in?”

“Oh, sorry.” Betty steps back, opening her door wide enough for Cheryl to move freely. She’s conscious enough to hide her gun behind her back, safety firmly in place.

Chery barely takes five steps in before she says, “Cooper, you’ve been here two months.”

Betty’s locking the door. Her eyes just won’t stay open, damn. “And?”

Betty looks over to where Cheryl’s standing in her kitchen/dining room. There’s something on the island but Betty can’t make out what it is, on account of Cheryl moving around.

“Why does your flat look like you’ve just moved here?” Cheryl demands, eyes hard and sunglasses perched firmly atop her head. _Why does it look like you’re ready to leave?_ goes unsaid. With Betty’s work history, it’s become second nature to not put roots anywhere; to be ready to leave at the change of the breeze.

_As your employers die out._

Betty shrugs noncommittal. “I like minimalism.”

“There’s minimalism and then there’s living out of your travel bag. I know it’s a fine line, but even you can figure it out.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Blossom.” Betty moves to the kitchen. She deposits her gun near the sink, searching the cupboards for her packs of tea. She’s intensely aware of Cheryl’s eyes boring into her back. “Now is this a social call?”

Cheryl laughs. Once, short and sharp. “Like we have time to waste being social. Even if we did, I seriously doubt I’d spend it in _this_ place.” A pause. “No offense.”

“It’s cheap.” Betty fills the electric jug with water.

“With what Veronica’s paying you could be living on Rosenburrow Avenue,” Cheryl points out matter-of-fact.

“The neighbourhood’s quiet.” Betty turns on the jug, watching the water slowly boil, and counting to 15.

“There’s a construction site four buildings over.”

“I’m sure it’s such a shock compared to Alsakov’s.” Betty snaps, anger getting the better of her. As soon as she said it, she regrets mentioning Alsakov’s Physical Rehabilitation Centre. It’s a low blow – to indirectly mention Cheryl’s brother by pointing out his recovery.

“That’s a low blow, Cooper.” Cheryl bits back, voice coiled and seething despite being low. She’s glaring daggers, or in other words: Glare #20. (Veronica claims Cheryl has at least 50 types of glares, so Betty’s taken up to cataloguing them whenever boredom strikes.)

Betty had naturally done her research on Cheryl Blossom, mostly on the basis that she’s heard the name before and couldn’t figure out where. (Veronica was easy – a famous lawyer beating down the third most dangerous mob accountant isn’t a small thing.) Within the first hour Betty had figured out why. Jason Blossom, Cheryl’s twin brother, is a world class athlete. Well former world class athlete. The car accident that could’ve cost him his life, paralysed him from the waist down.

(And every picture that wasn’t from a win on some competition had Cheryl right next to him, proud and loud. No sign of his parents. Just him and Cheryl and sometimes the tiny man that was Jason’s coach.)

Betty stopped looking after that.

The jug turned off with a final _click._ Betty sighs, long and hard to break the stare-off.

“You were deliberately prodding me.”

“Oh so will you be mentioning my parents when you’re pissed off? Or maybe you’ll throw in Veronica’s dad for good measure?”

Betty’s hands still where she’s mixing honey. _Veronica’s dad?_

“Hold on.” Betty faces Cheryl, who’s pacing on the other side of the kitchen island. “What does Veronica’s dad have to do about anything?”

Cheryl stops, arms crossed, and eyes puzzled. “You know what happened to him?”

Betty shakes her head. She didn’t research him or Veronica’s mother because she thought she did enough research on Veronica herself. And she may have been too restless to delve deeper. Now, with the knowledge that Hiram Lodge left an AI of all things for his daughter, she realises it was a rookie mistake.

“If she didn’t tell you, I sure as hell won’t,” Cheryl huffs, moving back to the kitchen island. Betty’s eyes follow her, dropping down to the tablet Cheryl left there on her way in. She waits for whatever more Cheryl has to say – because that was a relatively mild reaction given that she’s _Cheryl_. Then again all of that loud bravado might just be for show – a show she’s not able to bring when Jason’s in question?

“You know, I was going to be nice. I came all the way here, trying to be nice and develop our professional relationship in the right direction. I wasn’t going to comment on the gun greeting.” Cheryl looks up from the tablet, eyes narrowing, ponytail swishing as she shakes her head. “Then you pull that shit out. Honestly.”

“Since when has dirty laundry stopped you, Blossom?” Betty takes a sip of her tea. She slowly walks over to the island, purposefully leaving her gun behind. It wouldn’t be difficult to reach it should the need arise.

“Hmm, true. But it might soil our chances of recruiting Polly into Veronica’s little clique.” Cheryl smirks, pleased with herself far too much.

For her part, Betty tightens her grip on her cup less she drop it and have to clean up, and keeps her eyes trained on Cheryl. She’s looking for any form of deceit, any hint that Cheryl is fooling around just to get back at her. She wonders if Cheryl knows how lucky she is Betty left her gun near the sink. Because if Cheryl’s lying…

Betty can’t guarantee it wouldn’t hurt.

“You better not be poking.” Betty lowers her cup. “Really, really better not.”

Cheryl stares back, unfazed, though her smirk’s gone. Slowly she turns the tablet around, slides it closer to Betty. And it takes Betty all of the energy she has not to snatch it the very second she could.

And there on the tablet, Polly stares back, frozen in the camera feed. She looks tired, especially evident with the black hair and how she’s not paying attention where the cameras were. A flush of relief courses through her so suddenly Betty has to lean on the island for support.

When she had put Polly’s name on the list of possible agents/sources/clients, it had been for selfish reasons. She doubted Polly wanted to be an assassin again – it was a question that went unasked whenever they talked. “ _Would you go back?”_ And with each and every email, Polly’s answer became clearer to see. _“No.”_

Then they stopped talking. Betty had feared the worst, and hoped that if it wasn’t her looking for Polly then the news would sting less – that she wouldn’t lose a part of herself upon hearing it. But this – seeing Polly alive and tired but well and returning from a farmer’s market in a coastal city up north? It makes her want to cry all over again.

She’s so close to crying that she has to close her eyes and focus on breathing.

Cheryl clears her throat.

“I’m headed in that general direction.” She taps a finger on Polly’s geo-location. “Sorta, anyway. But I don’t think I’ll be able to make it before the end of the month.”

“She’ll be gone by then.” Betty opens her eyes, memorising the picture while she can. “She rarely stays in one place for longer than two weeks.”

“Oh,” Cheryl breathes out. “Well, shit luck, I guess. In any case I just thought you’d want a heads up. Or something. I don’t know how it works with you people.”

Betty nods as Cheryl takes away the tablet – obviously needing it for work, and Betty doesn’t have it in her to demand that she leave it. She keeps staring at the island, while Cheryl’s heels clack as she picks up her things and leaves. When she hears the door open, Betty looks up.

“I –” Betty starts not expecting Cheryl to turn around. She does stop though, so that’s something at least. _Fix your bridges._ “I hope Jason’s recovering well.”

She fully expects Cheryl to ignore her, to walk out that door and pretend nothing in here happened. Cheryl Blossom apparently doesn’t like conforming to Betty’s expectations. Instead of leaving, she turns around, eyes focused on Betty, but otherwise impassive.

Then there’s a twitch of an eyebrow, done so fast Betty might’ve imagined it.

“Me too.” Despite her voice being uncharacteristically mellow, it rings clear across the flat. And just so she wouldn’t ruin her streak, Cheryl smirks. “And for Ancient’s sake, Cooper, get a plant or something. Liven the place up.”

And she doesn’t even give Betty the time to quip back before she’s gone.

\----

It’s during a rainy day in a rainy week, with Betty running late to meet Veronica that she spots a dash of orange fur. Spots it right before it topples several crates in her way trying to climb onto shelter. Betty’s momentarily stunned at the amount of boxes that tiny kitten managed to scale.

Said kitten’s meowing from beneath one of the toppled boxes. It’s what gets Betty moving again. She’s lifting the box in less time it took for them to fall, and the kitten stares at her wearily, poised to run away at the first sign of trouble. The kitten’s orange fur’s dirty and unkempt.

“Hey little guy,” Betty murmurs, crouching and easing the box away. The kitten moves back, still weary. Betty’s just going to scoop him up and leave him atop a nearby window, so he’ll be safe from the rain, and where maybe someone who’s not her would take him home.

Then the kitten purrs against her hand and that plan flies with the breeze.

“Who’s this little guy?” Veronica coos, reaching over to scratch at Furball’s head from where it’s peeking out from her hoodie. (She’s yet to do her laundry, all right? Stop judging.)

“Aren’t you just the cutest thing?” Furball meows, angling his head so he can nip at Veronica’s fingers. “Have you named him, yet?”

“Furball.” The kitten meows again.

Veronica gives her an amused look once she’s straightened up. “Only you, Betty. Only you.”

Betty frowns, watching Veronica walk away. In two strides she catches up, Veronica’s still got an amused smile on her face.

“And you’d name him something elegant, right? Like William Percival Evalonty.” Furball chooses then to try and wiggle out of Betty’s hoodie. She quickly twitches her fingers in front of him to get his attention long enough to settle down.

Veronica gasps. Betty immediately forgets about Furball, moves to grab her gun, and looks around the street, trying to find the reason for Veronica’s distress.

…Is what she would’ve done if she hasn’t spent three months with the woman. She learned that Veronica had a penchant for the _dramatic._

“How could you forget the Fourth? And you call yourself his mother.” Betty looks up from the kitten. Veronica’s holding a hand over her heart, like she’s just about to cry if not for the fact that her lips are threatening to turn into a smile.

“How could I indeed.” Betty shakes her head, using it to hide her eye roll.

When they reach the next corner, Veronica suddenly takes her arm, and leads them down a different path than one of their usuals.

“Miss Lodge?”

“We’re buying supplies for Furball.” Veronica glances up. “No ifs, buts, howevers, maybes, unfortunatlies or how-abouts about it, Betty.”

Betty raises her eyebrow, but changes her pace so Veronica isn’t dragging her. Then she chuckles. “You’re going to spoil him rotten.”

“Hells. Yeah.”

Betty doesn’t bother to tell Veronica she’s still holding her arm. Mainly because she’s too busy not paying attention to it, like how she’s not paying attention to how bright Veronica’s smile is.

\----

It’s probably a miracle that it takes over three months for someone to actually come after Veronica Lodge.

They’re walking through Sarksvoid Park when Betty’s certain without any doubt they’re being followed.

The woman following them is discreet enough that it took Betty two turns on their way to the park before she noticed that she’s been talking on the phone almost as long as Veronica, and constantly keeps three people between them. She – let’s call her Blue Scarf; so Blue Scarf barely faltered in her act when Betty abruptly stopped to look at a candy store. Her eyes followed Blue Scarf as she passed them, still droning out about pie charts.

Betty shouldn’t have hoped Blue Scarf’d give up when they had two blocks without a peep. _Jinxed_ _it so hard_ – was what went through her head once she spotted Blue Scarf eating popcorn near the entrance to the park.

Now Betty waits for Veronica to finish her phone call (rescheduling things with Smithers – a family bodyguard of sort – so Veronica could finish everything in time for Josie’s mission – their first real spy agent.) As soon as Veronica’s signing off, Betty steers them to a more secluded path, surrounded by tall chestnut trees.

“Don’t panic,” Betty says softly.

“Which means I should panic because there’s something to panic about,” Veronica bites back, tone low and forceful. But it’s the underlining unsteadiness that draws Betty’s gaze, which in turn makes Veronica take a calming breath. “Okay, all right. Let’s say I’m not panicking. What’s wrong?”

“We’re being followed.” Betty chances a glance over her shoulder, and yep Blue Scarf is still following them – looking at her phone but definitely getting closer. Betty’s hand itches to go for her gun – which practically screams that she knows. So no, no let’s not do that. Yet.

“And you take us on a romantic and secluded path? Betty,” Veronica stresses to get her attention. “That’s not helping me _not_ panic.”

Betty hums, and catches her hand going for her holster. She couldn’t shoot at Blue Scarf out here in the open, not when she’d have a shot at Veronica as well. Betty glances around before her eyes settle on a narrow path between the trees. Casually Betty wraps her arm around Veronica’s shoulder, and uses the woman’s misstep to bring them closer.

“When we reach that colour vomit bench.” Betty juts her chin in the bench’s direction. She looks down to make sure Veronica’s following, receiving only a short look as confirmation. “We’re going to make a dash to that narrow path.”

Veronica looks clearly doubtful of that plan but she murmurs out a short _“okay”_.

As soon as they reach the bench, both of them are running for the path. They barely pass the second lamp when Betty grabs Veronica’s arm and sharply turns right, nearly tripping both of them on the low fence bordering the path. She moves so that Veronica’s hidden behind a thick tree trunk, with enough branches around to make it so she’s not immediately spotted. Betty keeps her eyes on Veronica, willing her to stay put, as she carefully moves to the next tree, closer to the path.

Blue Scarf runs by not five minutes later; Betty’s already got her gun out. That’s the last clear thing Betty remembers.

There’s a blur where the memories should be. A blur of Blue Scarf spotting her – somehow despite her being quiet and careful. A blur of her missing her shots because Blue Scarf lobbed a fiery mess at her. A blur of grunts and punches and metal _sizzling_ and the distinct sound of something cracking.

Then there’s red and the stench of burnt flesh.

Then there’s Blue Scarf laying crumbled before her, neck twisted and the signature scarf wound tightly around it, with her themo-gloves still buzzing with energy. There’s Betty standing there, breathing heavily and hair slipping out of her tight ponytail. There’s Betty glaring down at Blue Scarf, waiting to see if she’ll somehow recover from a snapped neck and come at her again. There’s Betty trying to find herself amid the chaos.

The pulsing pain from her burnt face and arm help.

So does Veronica’s voice.

_Veronica._

“Are you all right, Miss Lodge?” Betty turns away from the body to see Veronica staring unabashedly at her. Veronica’s eyes fly all over her, faltering at places where Betty feels stinging pain. It takes Betty less to notice how tight Veronica’s wound herself, how she’s trying so hard to keep herself together and calm when she’s so far from that.

Betty takes a step forward. It breaks whatever trance Veronica’s fallen into.

“Miss Lodge?”

“Me? Am I all right – you’re the one who wrestled with her,” Veronica points out, brows high in disbelief. “For fuck’s sake, you’re the one with burns on your face.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Really? It sure as hell looks bad.”

“Wow thanks.” Betty shakes her head, and winces lightly when it pulls at her skin. It’s all it takes to make Veronica move.

“We’re getting you cleaned up,” Veronica says, leaving no room for arguments. She goes back to the narrow path before Betty’s even given a chance to argue. And still she does.

“No need –”

“Of course there’s a need, Betty, you have burns on your face!” Veronica turns around, and stops in front of Betty, gesturing with her hands wildly, words failing her.

“Your safety is my priority right now. It’s why you hired me, Miss Lodge,” Betty says, pointedly when Veronica looks ready to argue her point. Instead Veronica narrows her eyes, hands on her hips, as if willing Betty to see it her way with that stare alone. And that stare had felled people; Betty’s seen it first-hand. (She no doubt would’ve backed down if this was about anything other than Veronica’s safety.)

“I have a first aid kit at my flat. I’ll be _fine._ ”

There’s a small change in Veronica’s eyes when Betty says that. They lose the fire Betty see when Veronica’s fighting for something she wants, lose the certainty she seems to carry with her – certainty that basically radiates off her like an outer shield.

Instead they look afraid.

“You better be,” Veronica mutters so quiet it might be more for herself than for Betty. She lowers her gaze to Betty’s neck – where the worst of the burn must be because it is hurting like mad. Then she just turns around, and continues walking.

The walk to Veronica’s home is silent and uneasy.

\----

The next morning Veronica doesn’t text her when to meet. Instead Betty receives a call from Smithers two hours after Veronica usually texted her that week (it differed on a weekly basis. Veronica’s likely unaware of this pattern.)

Betty hasn’t met Smithers in person – she’s present when Veronica calls him, often on speakerphone in her office so she could multitask more efficiently, but has yet to actually see the man. He’s close to Veronica, evident in how Veronica loses her cool professionalism during their talks. He’s a mystery Betty’s yet to unravel.

So when she gets a call from the aforementioned mystery, asking her in an effortlessly polite manner to come by the Lodge apartment, Betty’s got an uneasy feeling scratching at her neck. (Or that could be Furball since he’s snuck into her hoodie _again_ and refuses to leave.)

In the elevator Betty finally grows sick of Furball’s attempt to catch her ponytail. It takes her two tries but she finally has him in her grasp. He offers a measly meow when the elevator doors slide open, and a man in a crisp, navy blue suit and greying hair greets her.

Smithers. Well he looks like a Smithers.

“I wasn’t aware you’d be bringing Furball with you, Miss Cooper.” He gestures for her to follow him out of the entrance hall.

“Neither did I,” Betty grumbles, glaring at Furball who’s too busy nipping at her fingers.

There were a few homes that managed to pull off elegance without it being too aggressive and extensively accentuated. The Lodge household defines what that is. On any other day Betty would stop to admire it. Today she trails behind Smithers, heartbeat pulsing in her ears.

“She’s yet to eat breakfast, and with the amount of alcohol she carried off to her room – consider that she drank all of it, you won’t be far off – you’ll have to put it in front of her so she’ll actually eat it.” Smithers ticks off on his fingers as they enter a smaller hallway leading up a flight of stairs. “There’s some leftover pasta in the fridge. I’ve made fresh soup this morning and a pot of coffee.”

He stops near a dark wood door. “I’m afraid we don’t have cat food, but there’s bacon if he likes it.”

Betty waves her hand in a ‘don’t worry about it’ manner before Furball seizes her fingers to bite at them. She sighs, and looks at the closed door.

“She hasn’t left at all?” It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why – especially with how she was quiet and withdrawn after the attack. Betty’s only met two people who weren’t assassins by trade who stared at an attempt at their life and walked away unfazed. If Veronica’s methods of coping include drinking herself into oblivion, Betty’s hardly the person to judge.

However, the amount of worry Smithers is emitting tells her somethings off about all of this. And honestly Veronica wouldn’t have hired her if she wanted to hide away from the world after one assassination attempt. She wouldn’t step into this business with a confident smirk and eager eyes if she wanted to hide away. Society provides the best opportunities for obscurity.

If one can stand it.

Smithers shakes his head. “Refuses to. Bribing won’t help and believe me I’ve tried extensively before calling.” His eyes fall to Furball. “Though you may have better luck with him.”

Betty smiles at that. It fades quickly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Again, I apologise for dropping this on you –”

“It’s all right.” Betty offers him a placating smile. “Concentrate on Mrs. Lodge. I’ll take care of Miss Lodge.”

“Feel free to call if you need help.”

Betty supressed a snort. “I’ve survived three months just fine, Smithers.”

Smithers’ expression darkens. He looks at the door for a moment. “I realise you’re joking but do be gentle with her.” He turns to Betty and exhaustion is written on his face clear as day. “She’s been through a lot.”

“I know.” The sight of Veronica with the same tired look flashes before her eyes. It’s accompanied by the memory of Veronica falling asleep in her office. And the 3am trips to the restaurant.

With a pat on the back, Smithers leaves Betty to her own devices. Honestly Betty’s hesitant to let Furball wander the apartment simply because he’s developed a thing for scratching at anything remotely interesting. Even if Veronica wouldn’t get mad – she rarely does with Furball. Ever. It’s utterly unfair.

She decides to drop him and hope for the best – something that pays off because Furball wanders a bit down the hall but comes running back at the sight of a nearby vase (it does resemble a gargoyle face.) With a hum and a shake of her head, she knocks on Veronica’s door.

“Go away, Smithers.” Comes a groggy response.

“It’s not Smithers.”

“Oh.” A beat of silence. “Go away, Not Smithers.”

Despite herself, Betty smiles. “Clever.”

“I’m clever, I know. It’s great. Leave me alone to enjoy it.”

“Nope. No go, you’ll have to share.”

“Fuck that.”

“Fine. Be that way. I’ll just help myself to your breakfast,” Betty shoots back, pleased with her comment. But as the silence gets longer and longer, Betty’s smile dissipates as well as Furball’s patience. He latches onto her leg and begins his climb back up to her shoulders.

“Are you still there?” Veronica’s voice sounds so soft Betty almost doesn’t hear it.

“Still here.” She winces as one of Furball’s legs catches onto bare skin.

“What, finished with breakfast already?”

“What’d you do if I said I was?” It’s an obvious provocation. Betty’s hoping if she pokes at Veronica’s competitive side, she’ll force the woman out.

The sound of rustling sheet makes her think her plan’s working. But the silence afterward dampens that notion. Betty clicks her tongue, thinking. Then she goes to the kitchen, scours the cupboards until she finds a jug and a clear glass, (and has to keep Furball from jumping in because she’s not cleaning up a dozen broken glasses and cups) and fills the jug with water.

She knocks at Veronica’s door again.

“What?” Veronica sounds extra grumpy. She definitely won’t like Betty’s idea. _Oh well, tough shit._

“I’ve got water –”

“Woohoo.”

“–and I’m coming in.” Then she opens the door without any other warning. And the smell of alcohol hits her so hard she has a vivid memory of a pub brawl she instigated half drunk; it makes her right side flare up. Thankfully before the memory can play out, a pillow smacks the wall to Betty’s right. She gives it a cursory glance, then back to the lump beneath dark bedsheets.

“Really? What are you, twelve, Miss Lodge?”

“Leave.” Another pillow flies and hits the door, way off. Betty makes it halfway to Veronica’s bed before another falls at her feet. Betty looks down just as another hits her on the head. “Ha, got you.”

“And do you have any pillows left?” Veronica’s silence speaks all Betty needs to know.

She places the jug and glass on the nightstand, and clears the empty bottles before any have a chance to fall down. The number of different types of alcohol simultaneously makes Betty’s chest ache and worry for Veronica’s liver. Clearly she hasn’t been taking the assassination attempt well. Betty should’ve stopped her yesterday, should’ve gotten her to talk.

_Would she?_

Betty’s about to leave because clearly Veronica wants to be alone, to have time to fix herself back into the mould she’s created for the world, slot everything away until one couldn’t find it even with a map. Betty’s all too familiar with the sentiment, and to think Veronica’s been doing that for how long? (Because by the look on Smithers’ face this isn’t the first time.) It makes her sick.

“You know it’s okay to be afraid, don’t you, Veronica?” Betty murmurs, her back to Veronica. The room’s dark for a reason, and despite what she just did Betty will respect Veronica’s privacy.

“Sure,” Veronica says surly. “How about fucking terrified? How about seeing the scene unfold hours after it ended? How about jumping at every little bang?”

“If someone came after me, I’d be fucking terrified. I’d be jumping at things. Hell, I was terrified. Even when I was coming after people.” Betty lets a humourless laugh slip. Her palms sting where fingers dig in. Betty closes her eyes, and breathes – _one two three._

Veronica’s silent.

“I’m still afraid of rivers, you know? Sometimes I just stop when I’m near one and lose myself. Like a trance.” She’s taking a gambit. She couldn’t expect Veronica to open up if Betty stayed shrouded in mystery and the big scary, unfazed assassin. Because she is very fazed about this _._

She feels Veronica’s hand curl around her fingers, the barest of touches. _Easy enough for you to break away._

“Tell me about it?” She says so softly with a voice so small Betty thinks her chest might collapse from the pressure. She has to sit down from the force of it.

“Had to walk on a bridge railing.” Betty takes Veronica’s hand between both of hers, concentrates on flickering her fingers just to get her thoughts in order. She’s immensely conscious of Veronica’s eyes on her. “I can’t remember why, something about getting a good signal for my partner. It was winter, and there was rain the previous night so, y’know, ice was a thing. A thing I forgot about.”

She inhales, swallowing. Furball’s purring right next to her ear. It helps. “I fell. The river below was so cold and there were waves and I – I just sunk below. Sunk a lot before I made it close to shore and someone helped me out.”

Betty looks up, unsurprised to see tired brown eyes watching her every move. Tired and soft. “So yeah. I got fears. And you know what?” Betty leans closer, lips pulling into a wicked smile. “Fuck ‘em.”

Veronica snorts, but there’s a gentle tug on Betty’s hand that’s more grounding than anything she’s felt in a while. Then Veronica slowly sits up, wincing a bit as she moves her head. She looks at Betty, then frowns with a slight turn of her head that Betty’s only seen puppies do.

_And to think you forgot how adorable she can be. You fucked up, Cooper._

“Did you grow a lump? What’s that on your shoulder?”

“Furball.” Aforementioned cat swipes his tail against Betty’s ear, as if summoned.

Betty’s eyes are accustomed to the dark enough to see Veronica place a hand over her heart dramatically. “You’re telling me I almost hit my favourite nephew with a pillow?”

“Hey.”

“Come here, baby.” Veronica moves with greater speed than someone with a hangover should. Betty just manages to lean forward less Furball swipes at her hair when Veronica scoops him up. “I’m sorry for almost hitting you. Aunt Ronnie still loves you.”

“Sure he gets an apology. But what about the person you actually hit?” Betty shakes her head slightly in disbelief, tsking. “For shame, Miss Lodge. For shame.”

“It’s not my fault he’s adorable and you’re just cute.”

Betty nearly chokes on air. She reels it in at the last second, letting what would be a cough come out as an exhale. She looks at Veronica but the woman’s keeping her eyes on Furball, spread out on her lap and enjoying tummy rubs.

They sit there, nothing but Furball’s purring and meows filling the space between them. Betty’s thinking about leaving Veronica to get dressed, but Veronica clears her throat.

“The last time someone came after me like – like yesterday, mom –” Veronica pauses briefly, clearing he throat. “Mom nearly died.”

With how often Veronica asked Smithers, Betty figured Mrs. Lodge had been sick. Suddenly those bottles of alcohol and the terrified look make sense. Then Betty remembers that Veronica has a _gun_.

“I, I think the guy wanted Bianca. I mean why else would he scream about a computer while holding you at gun point? I almost forgot how scared I was and then,” Veronica snorts. “Yesterday happened and seeing you fight that lady – seeing the burns and the red it – it reminded me of blood and God there was so much blood –”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” Betty moves, quick enough to pull Veronica into a hug before she has a chance to second guess herself and become self-conscious. She can’t let this lovely woman break before her eyes, not when she noticed how much it took her to keep the mask going. She tightens her arms when Veronica begins to sob into her shoulder – deep, guttural sobs that leave her whole body shaking. Betty doesn’t know what to say – hasn’t really had a reason to comfort someone in such a long time she’s afraid she forgot how.

So she mimics what Polly did for her: runs a hand gently up and down Veronica’s back, and hums the first tune that comes to mind.

 

It’s closer to noon when Betty finally manages to get Veronica to eat something

\----

At this point Betty’s sure Veronica doesn’t actually have a destination in mind. Keller had dropped by to sort out a few things, and insisted Veronica and she meet him for lunch.

They finished lunch 2 hours ago. And Betty’s getting sick of seeing that add for deodorant all around town. One would think this town’s run by the deodorant company.

“Miss Lodge?” Betty breaks the stillness.

But Veronica either didn’t hear her, which isn’t that infeasible given how tired she looks and how often she’s spaced out in the last few days (ever since that day in her apartment, actually) or she’s purposefully ignoring her which also isn’t a good sign.

_She could be angry._ She has been rather irritable this week, what with planning and coordinating Josie’s, Melody’s and Valerie’s first missions. It’s come to a point that even Jughead has been careful about how he approaches her – with less bite, something Betty thought wasn’t possible given his intimate relationship with sarcasm. Betty’s trying to think whether she’s done something to make Veronica angry at her and she’s coming up blank.

So she tries a different approach. “Veronica?”

“Hm?” Veronica hums. That’s the only sign she gives.

“Can we switch?”

Her brows furrow at this. Eyes are on the road, however. “You have a driver’s licence?”

“Yep.” Betty says. They pass another deodorant billboard, and it’s official. Betty’s never buying that brand with its obnoxious horned robot-thing. “Cheryl had one set up when I got here.”

“Oh, right. ‘Course she did.” As the stoplight turns green, Veronica turns left into a relatively slow street. She finds a spot in a matter of minutes. They switch places in silence.

“Are we going somewhere specific?” Betty asks once they’re on the move again. She glances at Veronica after the woman takes longer to answer.

“No, I – I haven’t really figured that out yet. I’ll get back to you if I do,” Veronica murmurs. Her head’s leaning on the glass, eyes staring out but unseeing.

Betty supresses a sigh. “All right.”

They drive around for another hour, until Betty hears the familiar light snores. She parks the car, and calls for Smithers.

\----

_“We have a problem.”_

When someone says that, it’s expected that you get anxious as to why they said it. Maybe you left the washing machine on and now your home’s flooded. Maybe you forgot to clean the litter box and now the cat’s dug up all of your plants. Things like that.

When Veronica calls Betty in the middle of her shower with those words at the ready before any other greeting, Betty’s got a very different set of situations on her mind. Each one pushes her to go a little faster, to reach the Lodge apartment a little sooner.

None of those situations included Betty hauling a crate full of expensive wine around.

“I think I’m overqualified for this, Veronica,” Betty grumbles four blocks down. She moves the crate so it’s not agitating her receding burn wound.

“Maybe. But you are specifically qualified to carry a crate full of poisonous wine.”

“Excuse me?” Betty stares at her, eyes wide.

“You heard me.” Veronica raises her Sky-Glasses, fingers stopping where they were typing. She smiles, resting a placating hand on Betty’s arm – right above where her burn ends. It her skin tingle. “Relax. No one actually drank any.”

“I’m afraid to ask –”

“I poured some on my poor Falivoun.” Veronica shakes her head sadly, evidently remorseful over the loss of her wine drinking plant. Betty’s still puzzled how that isn’t considered some form of cannibalism among plants. She also remembers those plants looking distinctly ugly – like by any standards.

“Honestly I’d rather the plant wilt that the alternative.” Betty murmurs. She keeps her eyes on the crate, wine bottles clanking against one another. She tells herself it’s enough to avoid the look Veronica’s giving her.

(But it isn’t. Betty can’t escape those looks – the ones where she isn’t hiding behind a mask of bravado and confidence, where she’s letting herself just be _Veronica_ and not _Miss Lodge._

Like that first night at 3am in the tacky restaurant. Like that night in her office, looking up from her armchair with tired eyes. Like –

No Betty can’t escape them. She’s not so sure she wants to anymore.)

“Awww, that was sweet.” Veronica sounds too delighted.

“It’s my job.” Betty deflects, unwilling to think when that’s stopped being the reason.

\----

(“Andrews, stop flirting with Jughead you’ve got toxins to analyse.”

“Flirting??? With me???” Jughead stares, disbelieving and annoyed.

“I wasn’t flirting! I was just showing him videos of my dog.”

Veronica cocks her head, considering. “That surprisingly isn’t the oddest flirting method I’ve heard of.”

“I wasn’t flirting!!”

“Anyway. Toxins, in my fine wine. Analyse those. Come on, step on it. I need this culprit found so I can kick his – her – _their_ ass for ruining such quality merchandise.”

“Ahem.” Betty says, pointedly looking at Veronica.

“All right, so _Betty_ can kick their ass for ruining such quality merchandise.”)

\----

“All right, all right! I’ll talk!”

It took Archie 6 hours to figure out what kind of poison was in Veronica’s wine – a special little mix that didn’t produce an odour and had enough acidity to make the wine taste a bit sour. Put in the correct brand and the target wouldn’t notice at all. And four hours later they’d be dead with blood pouring out of their mouth and a green tint around their lips.

Betty’s seen several cases of that handiwork. Even knows who the handiwork belongs to.

He’s currently tied up and hanging precariously from an unstable support beam, while the rest of the eerie construction yard lay spread beneath his feet. Some 8 stories down. He wouldn’t have to scream for his life if he’d been honest when she dropped by his apartment. With how long the man’s been in the business Betty thought he’d react better to people breaking into his hideout and waiting for him to arrive.

Betty might’ve been a bit destructive though. It wasn’t her fault. He went after Veronica.

_Breathe – one two three_

“You’ll talk? No bullshit?”

“I swear! Pull me in! Pull me in!”

Betty flexes her fingers on the rope – the only thing keeping him connected to the half-done floor Betty’s standing on. She tugs, and when he swings her way her free hand latches into the collar of his bloody shirt. Then she notices a distinct smell.

_Great._

“You’re not talking,” Betty points out, voice cold and calm. How easy is it to slip back into old habits?

“Okay, okay. Holy shit. It’s Lionel Burond. He’s the one who put a hit on your girl. Even doubled the amount after Sizzle failed.” Sizzle, really? “But I wouldn’t have taken it had I know she was your girl.”

“My girl?” Betty raises an eyebrow, dubious. A voice at the back of her head is shrieking excitedly at the implications of it all – _your girl, your girl your girl_ looping like a broken record she can’t seem to throw away.

“Yeah. I – I don’t take other people’s contracts. Bad for business, y’know.” He offers a timid smile, probably to help soften her up.

Betty simply stares. “Good call.” Before he can enjoy the compliment Betty yanks him uncomfortably close, almost nose-to-bloody-nose. “However, your little stint nearly cost me my target.”

She can practically feel him shudder.

“No, no please no! I didn’t know! I didn– He never said anyone else took the job! I asked. All right? I asked him twice and he said no one took –”

“He was _lying_. Did you think of that?” Betty hisses. She narrows her eyes, considering him. “Or maybe you’re lying, hm? Telling some bullshit about Lionel Burond and Sizzle.”

He’s shaking his head, whispering _“no, no, no”_ but Betty’s not having any of it. If she wants the truth she needs him fucking _terrified_ to even think about lying. Needs him to understand at whose mercy he is. Needs him to know just what kind of monster he pissed off.

So she shoves him away, with enough force that the rope shifts closer to the beam’s end, sending him closer to oblivion. He screams as he swings, legs kicking out to try and swing back. Each time he comes close Betty loosens more of her rope, and it sends him back into a screaming frenzy. She just watches. And waits.

“You ready to be honest with me, Wittle?”

“I am honest!” He pleads. There are tears streaking down his face. He’s starting to blubber. “It’s the truth. Mr. Burond, all of it. He wants Veronica Lodge dead. I swear. I swear it on my mom.”

“You’d swear on your poor dead mother? Have you no shame?”

“Please,” he wails, and Betty thinks this is it. This is where he sinks or swims. Or well, falls or hangs as the case may be. “I don’t want to die.”

God, she’s forgotten how intoxicating that feels.

“Then you shouldn’t have gone into this business.”

And that’s how she leaves William Wittle to hang 8 stories high on an abandoned construction site just outside of town. Leaves him swinging and screaming, begging her to come back and shouting _“we had a deal.”_ If he’s lucky, someone actually owns and looks after this construction site. If he’s not – well, he shouldn’t have taken that contract.

Betty scoffs, glancing down at her phone, as if half expecting Veronica to call at the mere thought of her. It’s silent. Silent like her thoughts.

_Your girl, huh?_

\----

Betty hums. Her eyes are dancing over the holographic chess pieces, trying to plot out as many possible moves and outcomes as she can before Bianca kindly reminds her that it’s her turn. The reminder always springs her to action.

She goes with queen to F5.

Then Bianca moves her bishop to eat her remaining rook and – yep, that’s check. With a sigh she leans back in her armchair – another recent addition to Veronica’s little nook in her office – _“So you don’t have to stand all day while I argue with these stuck-up losers.” “You mean your clients?” “Yeah them.”_

“Wow, okay. I thought Cheryl was being well –” Betty opens her eyes to see Veronica flop down into the opposite armchair, dropping her phone and tablet next to the projector. “Cheryl, and exaggerating your lack of chess skills.”

“Excuse you, I have chess skills.”

“Yeah,” Veronica smiles. “Bad ones.”

“I’m playing against an AI, cut me some slack.” Betty watches as Furball – who has been happily napping below the small table – stretch. He then proceeds to hop on the armchair and flop down over Veronica’s crossed knees. Veronica immediately begins scratching his head.

“Sure, blame it on poor Bianca,” Veronica clicks her tongue.

“I’m not blaming her,” Betty points out.

“Sounded like you were. Cold, Betty. Coooold.”

_“Would you like for me to lower the difficulty, Agent Cooper.”_ Bianca chimes in cheerfully. Veronica snorts but hides it behind her hand.

Betty shoots her a glare. “No thanks, Bianca. I think I’m done.”

“No, come on. Don’t give up so soon. Bianca, reset the board.”

_“Will you be playing against her, High Queen of the Pysay Realm?”_

Betty gives her a look, brows going so high her face hurts. She also pretty sure her mouth’s hanging open in a comical fashion.

For her part Veronica doesn’t react beyond a dark blush. “Naturally. We can’t have Betty’s claims of mad chess skills go untested, now can we? Enable audio matching please.”

“I never mentioned _mad_ chess skills, High Queen of the Pysay Realm.” Betty can’t resist a smirk, especially since Veronica’s blush just spreads below to her neck.

_“Board reset.”_

“Thank you, Bianca.” And then Veronica goes into what Betty will dub Competitive Ronnie: face serious, jaw set, eyes burning with confidence and a challenge, and lips at the ready to quirk up.

It takes 17 turns for Betty to lose. It takes her 22 to lose on the rematch.

“I have a question,” Betty says suddenly during the third match. She’s eyeing Veronica’s fourth pawn, too close to her rook. She’s fairly sure that’s a diversion, but it’s the only conquest she’s got that doesn’t leave her rook surrounded.

“Just so you know I charge by the hint.” Veronica wiggles her brows, causing Betty to snort.

“You technically pay me.”

“So?”

“So isn’t that like taking money from yourself?”

“But I’m taking it from you. Besides, who said I was talking about money?”

Betty nearly chokes on her water. Instead she’s coughing up so bad she might see a lung emerge. Her face is burning but that’s from the coughing fit. ( _Yep. Completely true._ ) Then there are a few firm pats on her back.

“Geez, Betty I didn’t think you’d cough up a lung upfront.” Veronica laughs next to her. The small circles she draws on Betty’s back help soothe the coughing. Help soothe a lot of things actually. But Betty’d rather not get into that.

“You good?” Veronica murmurs, surprisingly soft considering the undertones of amusement in her voice. Betty nods, managing to spare her a glance, and she notes Veronica’s perched on the arm of the armchair, forcing Betty to look up at her for once. Veronica nods back, one corner of her lips twitching up. She removes her hand, laying in on the back of the armchair.

“You had a question? I feel I should pay up for that lung you coughed up.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Veronica just looks at her, brow raised.

“It is personal.” Betty offers her a way out. The last thing she wants is to force Veronica to answer. Her curiosity isn’t worth making Veronica withdraw back behind her mask.

Veronica lowers her brows. “About?”

“Why do you want to make a spy network?”

She watches as Veronica’s eyes stray down to her lap, watches her hand pick at the edges of her skirt. Watches and waits for either a subject change or a vague non-answer or, perhaps she’ll be so lucky, as to get a piece of the real reason why. One doesn’t go from upstanding lawyer to hiring an ex-assassin for a bodyguard so she could make a spy network without _something_ happening.

Her mother nearly dying flashes in Betty’s mind, the hit that could’ve very well cost Veronica hers. And over Bianca. One would think that’d make Veronica want to hide away from such danger, not turn around and head straight toward it. (The feeling of tears on her neck, soaking strained skin, and sobs etching themselves into her shirt and how small she was in Betty’s arms. Just how close was Veronica to hiding away?)

“My dad.” Veronica’s voice startles Betty from her musings, and she snaps her gaze to the woman, yet Veronica’s still looking at her hand. “He used to work for a special unit. Nothing big I think, mostly arrangements: travel, lodgings, equipment, that sorta thing. Heh, a Lodge doing lodgings.”

Veronica inhales a shaky breath. “For my 14th birthday he gave me Bianca. I dunno where he got her or how. Didn’t think to ask because hey, I got an AI who gives a shit, right?” She looks up, and Betty’s heart hurts at the sight. There are unshed tears in Veronica’s eyes.

“Who gives a shit – someone did. They found my dad dead in his office. They told us he – that he killed himself.” Veronica laughs but it ends up like a sob. “Left a recording for us. ‘Find Smithers,’ he said. ‘And I’m sorry.’ He was sorry. I couldn’t understand why – was it because he left us or because he knew people would come after us?”

“Veronica,” Betty starts. She doesn’t get very far.

“After the hit – the one on mom and me. It –” Veronica wraps her arms around herself, making herself as small as possible. “It got me thinking. So Smithers and I dug through dad’s files and that’s how I got the idea. I mean I was a manipulating little shit in college. Could work a courtroom with ease.” She shrugs, sniffing.

“Why not apply that to something that can protect us? Why not –”

“Shhh.” And Betty’s dragging her by the arm until Veronica flops into her lap and waiting arms. It’s alarming how instinctual it’s become to hug Veronica; to wrap her arms around her back and let her bury her face in Betty’s shoulder; to run her hands up and down Veronica’s back and hum next to her ear.

What’s more alarming is how Betty’s grown comfortable with it all.

_“Thank you”,_ she’ll say once Veronica’s calmed, once her shaking subsides and her fingers ease off Betty’s shirt. And she’ll have Bianca order a delivery – pancakes, cake, sweets of any and all kinds, anything Veronica wants.

Anything she wants.

_You’re in too deep, Cooper._

\----

Betty’s trying to figure out how to free her queen from the sticky situation when her phone pings with an email.

She expects it to be Veronica or Jughead – who “accidentally” sent her a video of goats’ parkour (and signed it with a _“you’re welcome”_ ) which led to them awkwardly sending each other weird videos they find when they can’t sleep. Hell she even wonders if Bianca’s trying to hack into Veronica’s phone again so she could send another email/intervention.

(Veronica had Jughead change her firewall levels after the second time Betty came to her office in the dead of night to wake Veronica. Bianca, in all the years she’s spent with Veronica, has learned stubbornness to an alarming degree.)

However, Cheryl’s name stands highlighted in her notification bar, matched with a vague title.

The email’s short – like really short. The only thing other than an attachment are the words _“thought you’d want an update.”_

The attachment is another set of photos of Polly and her last known location – to the west, closer to the mountains on the north continent. Polly’s changed her hair, and Betty can safely say red isn’t her colour. She doesn’t dwell, instead focusing on how Polly’s helping in what looks to be an open kitchen for the homeless.

_“But what would you do with free time??”_

_“I’d probably cook.”_

_Only you Poll._

Betty smiles, and fires a short thank you to Cheryl.

She doesn’t manage to save her queen. But at least she falls asleep a little easier, despite Furball demanding complete possession of her pillow.

\----

They celebrate their first successful mission by going to a club.

Which given how stressed out everyone has been and the tension being so thick it became suffocating (Betty was just waiting for a fight to break out honestly), it’s a much needed break.

Except Betty isn’t actually on a break. Not with how Veronica’s disappearing into the mass of the club, reappearing every now and then to drown a few drinks and then poof – off she goes again. It’s a miracle Betty can even spot her in the club. Every time she loses sight of Veronica her heart jumps to her throat, or her gut gets spiked, but then she’s there and Betty can _breathe._

_One two three._

_Keep it together, Cooper._

Thankfully it’s just Veronica she has to constantly worry about. Cheryl’s been positively glued to the Pussycats – their name, not Betty’s – and is currently laughing at something Josie said. (Betty hasn’t been too preoccupied with Veronica to miss how Cheryl, whenever she was at the base, favoured meeting with Josie first rather than directly finding Veronica. And by the smirks Veronica makes whenever Cheryl leaves, Betty’s got an inclining Veronica noticed too.)

Anyway if three agents can’t keep Cheryl safe, she’d most likely tear whoever comes for her a new one.

Meanwhile the surprise of the night, Jughead, hasn’t left the next booth. Too busy brooding and listening to Archie. Betty always wondered where exactly Archie found the energy to talk so much about so many things. One would expect him to be a sleep deprived mess like the rest of them but no, he breaks expectations. And his excitement for whatever is evidently seeping into Jughead, if the less cynical and gloomy emails and text are anything to go by. (And he’s not glaring at everybody tonight. Just a selective few that stumble to close to them.)

The only problem she’s got is a Kevin Keller insisting he find someone for Betty to loosen up with. The thing is Betty’s positive he spent the last two weeks across the bay. So positive she’s bet her shooting arm on it. And yet here he is. Betty doesn’t even know how he found out about this, since it was a last minute thing Veronica suggested – of fucking course.

Veronica.

“Don’t even think about it, Keller,” Betty bites out, taking a sip of her drink.

He sighs, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm. “That covers all of the types at this joint. Come on, Betty there has to be someone that’s your type.”

A certain brunette comes to mind. Betty shoves that thought down immediately.

“Maybe. I’m not exactly looking. I think I told you so about,” she pauses, pretending to think. “50 times. Give or take.”

“You’ve barely given them more than a glance.” Betty raises an eyebrow but stays silent. Keller groans, puffing out his bangs. “The only one you haven’t stopped looking at is Veronica.”

And right on cue Betty’s eyes stray in search of the aforementioned brunette. They find her dancing in such a way that leaves Betty’s guts in knots and leaves her breathless just by looking. And her eyes trail noting all the places where Veronica’s wedged between two people. With each pass her fingers twitch against the cool glass.

_You wish you were there, don’t you?_

Betty swears, _swears_ that Veronica’s eyes met hers as she began grounding against person in front of her. The look she sends Betty’s way – shit. It makes her throat dry.

_Breathe, Cooper._

_One two three._

“Holy shit.”

Betty blinks, suddenly aware Keller’s still sitting next to her. He’s giving her a shocked and knowing look. At her furrowed brows he moves his eyes back to the mass, to Veronica, then pointedly back to Betty. Betty can feel herself heat up but she refuses to falter before him.

“Whatever you’re thinking, Keller, it’s not happening.”

Kevin scoffs, waving away Betty’s claim. “Like shit nothing’s happening.”

“Nothing. Is. Happening,” Betty hisses out, inching closer with every enunciation. Kevin looks doubtful.

“You know I won’t judge, right?” He raises his brow, gesturing with his glass. “Whatever you two are doing is none of my business.”

“We’re not doing anything. There’s nothing to do.”

“Isn’t there?”

“No!” Betty snaps. She stops herself from breaking her glass, and inhales and exhales slowly. She shouldn’t let this get to her. It’s not even a thing they should be discussing. It’s not even a thing period. So why is her heart beating like she’s got a perfect shot at her target? Why are her hands shaking like the first time she’s held a gun?

Why is she so nervous at the thought that there could be _something_ between her and Veronica?

_Nervous or hopeful?_

“Darling,” Kevin begins. He stops his hand midway to Betty’s arm, thinking better of it. (And Betty sorta gave him a glare when she realised what he was doing.) He settles for drumming his fingers on the table. “Take this coming from a man who spends most of his time selling things of dubious legality with his boyfriend anywhere but where your soiree hangs out – there is _definitely_ something there.”

“How is Joaquin, by the way?”

Kevin’s smile cannot be explained by anything other than dreamy. “Lovely as ever. A bit pissed but lovely. Also don’t change the subject.”

“Why is he pissed?” Betty presses on.

“Betty.”

“Kevin.” He raises his brows in challenge, clearly having no intention of backing down. It reminds her of Veronica and – damn, okay maybe Betty has a small problem on her hands. (Has had a small problem on her hands since the first few weeks, really. Compartmentalisation is a bitch sometimes.)

“Drop it. Nothing’s gonna happen.” Betty looks down at her glass, disputing the pros and cons of ordering another drink. It’s not like she’ll get drunk from two whiskeys. Seven maybe.

“Okay, fine. I’ll keep it on the down low. But for what it’s worth,” he clicks his tongue to get her attention. Then he offers a sympathetic smile. “I don’t think she’d reject you.”

Betty shrugs. Her eyes float back to the dance floor, making sure Veronica’s still there – she is, although she’s switched dance partners. With a grumble Betty drowns her drink.

“So why’s Joaquin pissed?”

Kevin scoffs before taking a swing at his vodka. “The usual strain of long-distance relationships.”

“Anything specific?”

Kevin stares at his glass, turning it over. “Missing anniversaries. And the big one-year one too.”

Betty raises her brows in mild surprise. “Sorry. That – that sucks.”

“Oh yeah.”

Betty deliberates her next words for a whole of five seconds before she blurts out, “Anything we can help with?”

Kevin gives her a curious look. His eyes are dancing like he’s considering her offer. Then he shrugs that reads _to hell with it._

“If you can get my client to come to the Enskope Bay, I’d be eternally grateful.”

“To have the Kevin Keller eternally at our disposal.” Betty grins something wild. “I’ll see what can be done.”

“I was right about you, Betty. You’re all right.”

\----

“Hey, um.” Veronica stops as they climb the stairs to her office. She takes off her shades, toys with them in her hands nervously. She’s biting her lip furiously.

Betty has a flashback of their red twins, barely an inch away from her own, breathing heavily. She bit her lip then too.

“Hmm?” Betty hums, trying to sort out her thoughts. She’s lost enough sleep over that.

Veronica looks up, with so much guilt in her eyes Betty almost doesn’t recognise them. “I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour last night, at the club.”

_A blur of red and black and neon. She’s too close and not close enough, there and not there._

_“What are you doing?”_

_That smirk._

_“You know what I’m doing.”_

_She’s leaning it. Red lips close – so tantalising close it’s fucking taunting her and it’s fucking unfair. So fucking unfair. Because her heart’s pounding, her hands are already on her hips and her throat is so dry it could be a fucking desert._

_And it’s so fucking unfair because this is not how it’s supposed to go, and how can her body just betray her like that, just give in to temptation wrapped in a black dress and with positively thirsty eyes?_

_They air between them reeks of alcohol._

_Betty eases back._

_“We can’t do this.”_

_Veronica follows._

_“Sure we can.”_

_Betty moves one hand to Veronica’s bare shoulder, and pushes back._

_“No. Veronica you’re drunk and we – this can’t happen. Not here. Not like this.”_

“I was out of line. Way out of line,” Veronica’s words pierce through Betty’s thoughts. “And I’m so, so, so sorry for forcing you into such a situation. Words cannot describe how shitty that was and how I had no right and… I promise you it won’t happen again.”

There’s fire burning behind all that guilt. Unwavering, bright and stubborn fire to match the hard, resolve backing up Veronica’s words.

_Confused, unfocused eyes look at her as if seeing for the first time._

_“I’ll wait for you outside.”_

Betty feels the ramifications of a sleepless night all the more keenly. It’s a bold contrast to how light her chest feels at Veronica’s words. She’s used to people pushing against her and being forced to push back, to stand her ground or else there won’t be any ground to stand on. Won’t be anything left of her to stand on it – just what other people want Elizabeth Cooper to be.

It’s refreshing to not have to fight for her nook with Veronica.

“Thank you.” Betty gives her a relieved smile. She’s about to continue up when Veronica put her hand on her arm, in the lightest of touches. As if she’s afraid to touch Betty.

_Hands buried in her shirt, pulling her closer._

_Fingers trailing her jaw, hauntingly slow._

“I don’t –” Veronica hesitates, exhaling loudly. Then she pointedly looks at Betty, eyes pleading, and Betty’s heart does a lurch. “I don’t want to jeopardise what we have, Betty. I –”

“It’s okay.” Betty stops her when her hands look close to snapping her shades in half. She looks so small, so unsure of herself Betty just wants to wrap her arms around her. But that would only make things more awkward, and neither would appreciate more awkward. “You didn’t jeopardise anything, Veronica.”

They stand there in silence, broken only by the sound of something exploding a floor below them – Archie’s invention most likely. He is trying to make a miniature flamethrower. Betty shakes her head, gesturing to the commotion. Veronica gives her a small smile as they both descend to sort out the damage.

For the rest of the day they work much like before, except the air was both lighter and heavier with things left unsaid.

\----

They’re dancing around each other, working without actually talking what happened that night at the club. Veronica seems happy to leave it buried. Betty’s willing to do it too, if only her dreams would comply.

At least Furball wakes her up before her mind can delve into what they could’ve done _after_. Frankly Betty might’ve snapped. Imagine that, decades of intense and rigorous training at the Organisation undone by imaging having sex with Veronica Lodge.

_Probably because it’d be fucking fantastic._

_Breathe._

Getting back into her exercise routine helps. Makes her too tired to do anything other than pass out on the couch into dreamless oblivion. Sadly – sadly, really Cooper, sadly? – it has also increased the _looks_ Veronica sends her way. You know the kind – long, appreciative that bore holes into you, makes your skin tingle and throat dry.

_Sadly she says._

_One two three._

Veronica has had her work cut out for her. With the first missions behind them – all three a startling success – Veronica had to start planning the long run, had to map out and space out all of the other clients and fix possible overlaps while babysitting the two boys totally-not-flirting a floor down.

Atop it all she managed to fix Keller’s client problem, which Betty had mentioned in passing during early breakfast two days after the _incident_.

( _“All right. I’ve said this before but right now it bears repeating: Veronica Lodge you absolute goddess.”_

“Flattery will get you somewhere, but I’ll settle for that favour, Kevin.”

_“Passing on praise?”_ Kevin’s eyes widen. _“What is it?”_

“Lionel Burond. Find him – them – whoever and everyone behind that name. I don’t care how long it takes or what you have to do.”

_“Aye, aye. Keller’s on the case.”_ )

Even Cheryl’s been spending more time at base – they really needs a name for it, it’s been close to five months it’s high time for a proper name. Cheryl’s been stalking through the halls, either on the phone or arguing with Jughead or looking through endless forms and documents. And when she isn’t doing any of that she’s hashing out plans with Veronica.

(“We’ll need transportation for this. The last guy got offed a few days ago.”

“Great. Shit. Yeah, okay, find us a guy – with less enemies if you can, Cheryl.”

Cheryl scoffs. “Hardly a challenge, please. I’m more worried about coordination. The hermit’s passable but –”

“You want to find operators?”

“Professionals, yes. At least when they growl in your ear it’s with something smart and useful, not because that’s who they are.”

Veronica looks ready to slam her head against her desk. Instead she nods. “Okay. Go for it.”)

“I’m going to snap Mister Pendleton’s neck,” Veronica grumbles from behind her hands, having just ended a call with said Mister Pendleton Sr. He is a sour man and more than once Veronica had to rein in her frustration at getting interrupted again.

Slowly Betty moves away Veronica’s coffee. “No more of this for you today.”

Veronica puts a hand out, searching for where Betty’s sliding her coffee away. “Elizabeth Amadea Cooper –”

“That’s not my middle name.”

“– I will hurtle something at you if you don’t remove your hand from my coffee cup.” Veronica looks up from her hands. She’s smudged her makeup, helping the dark pits underneath her eyes break free.

It is way pass the time for an intervention to her workaholic tendencies. Betty think it’ll have to be her that makes it.

Thankfully Mama Lodge beats her to it, strolling into Veronica’s office like a woman on a mission. Betty could see where “lawyer Veronica” got it from, the looks the woman’s shooting at both of them are capable of terrifying anyone into submission. But Betty’s a trained killer, and Veronica’s barely lucid at this point.

She snaps to attention when Bianca announces her mom though.

“Mami!” Veronica’s on her feet, and moving to hug her mother tightly.

It’s sorta odd how Betty hasn’t seen or heard from Mama Lodge since accepting this job. After doing another sweep of the Lodges, since Cheryl unkindly pointed out Betty’s lack of information, she had chalked it up to being busy – after all running a chain of restaurants around town took a lot of time and energy. After Veronica disclosed the almost successful hit, Mama Lodge’s absence became all the more understandable.

Betty must note that she looks lovely, and seems well on her way to a full recovering.

“What are you doing here?” Veronica asks when they separate. Hermione raises her brows incredulously.

“Because Smithers tells me you look like shit, mija.” She looks up, meeting Betty’s gaze sharply. Then it softens. “And it’s time I officially met your bodyguard. You know the one you didn’t bother to mention you were hiring?”

She takes that as her cue, moving around the small table, and offering her hand to Hermione. “Elizabeth Cooper, though I prefer Betty.” Betty smiles courteously when they shake hands, but otherwise remains impassive. (And she does note the blush on Veronica’s cheeks, yes thank you for asking.)

(She’s still shoving the _incident_ and how close she was to kissing Veronica from her mind, also a great question, thank you.)

“Hermione Lodge. Charmed.” Hermione’s smile is all teeth, the same Betty got when people didn’t know what to make of her and had to be polite. Though Hermine’s has an undercut of ‘I’ll hunt you down and hurt you if I have to’ to it. And with her good grip, she’s likely to back up that show of bravado.

“Now the, off to lunch with you two.”

“Wait, what?” Veronica blurts out after her mother.

“Lunch. You, me and Betty here I presume?” Betty nods because it’s a given she’s gonna shadow Veronica. Though she would’ve done it discreetly had Mama Lodge not invited her.

“But I have work.”

Hermione places her hands on her hips. “Nothing that can’t wait 20 minutes.”

“ _Mami._ ”

“Mija, you’re falling apart worse than in Law School. Have you even eaten today?”

Veronica’s silent, but Mama Lodge turns her gaze to Betty, quirking an eyebrow expectantly. Betty shakes her head minutely. Veronica shoots her a glare that screams _‘traitor’_.

“Then its settled. Bianca, hold any calls Veronica might get for the next hour.”

“You said 20 minutes!” Veronica fires back, raising her hands.

_“Done and done, Mrs Lodge.”_

Veronica glares back at her display, where Bianca materialised, and shot her the same glare she gave Betty.

“Traitors the lot of you. I cannot believe,” she grumbles as they’re leaving the apartment building. Smithers is already waiting for them by the car. Betty pats her on the back, trying to comfort.

“At least you won’t hear from A. S. Hole Pendleton.”

Veronica starts to snicker but it blows up into a full minute laugh.

“Okay you’re definitely overdue for a break, that joke was awful,” Betty says as she practically drags a laughing Veronica to the car.

Hermione, however, gives her an approving nod, eyes distinctly warmer than they had been inside.

“A. S. Hole.” And Veronica dissolves into another laughing fit in the back of the car. Betty and Smithers share a look.

\----

Groaning into her pillow Betty turns over to the nightstand. The small clock she got reads 3:22am and Betty exhales long and slow. Furball’s curled up for once, snoring next to her stomach.

Her phone pings with a new text when she swipes it out of silent mode. Archie’s name is highlighted in turquoise – he insisted on that colour when he managed to steal a glance at her phone. At the time it matched the paint stuck in his hair from an almost successful invention.

_“Hey, Jug said it’s okay to send you animal vids… and you looked kinda down today so guess what I got.”_

The link takes her to his private compilation of cute animals playing Taverns and Giants.

Betty laughs herself back to sleep.

\----

The only warning she gets is a text from Cheryl reading _“I hate you”_ before Reginald Mantle comes out onto their roof garden. (Veronica’s. It’s Veronica’s roof garden. Just because you spend time with her here doesn’t mean it’s also yours, Cooper. Stop hoping, you’ll hurt yourself.)

“Betty!” Mantle says, voice booming over the radio music. Veronica flinches from the sound, nearly snapping her newest plant in half.

That’s all Betty sees before she’s swept into a hug that can only be described as a bear hug. She’s forgotten Mantle’s a hugger. And impulsive hugger.

“I knew you’d find a way out of that Maharren death trap.” He mumbles happily into her chest, doing a little twirl.

“And I knew those sand scrappers couldn’t kill you,” Betty bites out. She can feel Veronica’s gaze on them and it’s making her face heart up. “Reginald, put me down. Now.”

He does, mumbling out apologies and patting her clothes back into a semi-representable state. Noticing her glare, Mantle pointedly looks everywhere but Betty. He slowly takes in the flourishing garden while Betty clicks her tongue at the state of her shirt.

He whistles. “I gotta say for someone with – um, your style of work, you’ve got a fancy garden up here.”

“Thank you,” Veronica chimes in, startling Mantle enough he jumps back. Betty instinctively moves far to the left. Mantle is prone to hiding behind her, usually citing _“you have that resting bitch face down to the note”_ which only leads to her turning that resting bitch face on him.

Veronica’s smiling her lawyer Veronica smile – kind and polite but forced enough to hint at fake. Her eyes are subtly straying to Betty, silently asking for clarification on what is happening. Sadly Betty doesn’t get to make introductions.

“And you even have a gorgeous gardener? Betty, darl, honey, sweetie –”

“Reginald,” Betty bites out, raising her brows.

“– you’ve been holding out on me. Why didn’t you mention you had a magnanimous garden and a drop-dead gorgeous gardener? I would’ve hopped the first plane here.” He stops, snaps his fingers and leans in close. “Is it because of Khalazam? You know I had your back, right? I couldn’t have known the guy kept rattle snakes in his wine cellar. It was an honest mistake!”

Betty puffs out a breath. She raises her finger at Mantle, willing him to back off. “Reginald Mantle –”

“Will you stop, I said it’s Reggie –”

Betty snaps her fingers, gesturing to Veronica with a mild flourish. “– meet Veronica Lodge.”

“Oh, it’s a pleasure indeed.” Mantle takes Veronica’s hand, moves in to kiss the back of it.

“Your boss.” Betty points out, and smirks at how quickly Mantle just locks up, mouth puckered comically halfway to Veronica’s hand.

Meanwhile Veronica’s brows have disappeared beneath her hat. Her impassive (unimpressed) stare follows Mantle as he straightens up. She cocks her head to the side as he coughs pointedly, enjoying how uncomfortable he is.

“I apologise.” He says, keeping his voice clear and strong so it can be heard. “And you do have a lovely garden. The Unbamka’s are growing beautifully.”

Veronica looks curious. “Thank you. You’ve got some gardening behind you?”

He shrugs, sheepish. And odd sight for a Mantle. “Well, I had to pretend I was a botanist in a greenhouse for about half a year. I think it was that long. Anyway, helps to know what plants to avoid.”

“Not bad, Mister Mantle.”

“Reggie, please.”

“However, do try to leave the sweet talking for your work. I can’t guarantee you’ll walk away unscathed.” And with that Veronica moves back to her previous spot, a confident swagger in her step.

Betty can’t keep the smile off her face.

_You’re in too deep, Cooper._

_Break the surface._

\----

_“Okay so.”_ Kevin claps his hands, presses his fingers against his mouth for a moment. He looks as dishevelled as Betty has ever seen. _“Here’s the thing. I’ll need more time to find who is behind this Lionel Burond.”_

“You’re certain it’s just one person?” Veronica asks. She’s fiddling with her glasses, eyes pointed at the weird lime green tapestry. She looks pensive.

_“Yeah, I’ve managed to narrow that down. And that whoever it is looks like a man.”_

Veronica hums, clearly somewhere far away.

“To whom do you owe your soul, Keller?” Betty asks in Veronica’s stead. Someone has to fish for information.

_“Still my one true love, Joaquin of course.”_ Veronica snorts behind Betty, who is leaning on the side of her table. Kevin wiggles his eyebrows but continues. _“However I did procure a photo for you lovely ladies.”_

“Aren’t you a doll, Kevin.” Veronica says but she’s still looking at the tapestry. Which turns out to be a good thing because Betty doesn’t want her to see the terror and confusion that’s plain to see on her face.

On the small split screen Kevin’s pulled up the photos he’s got – photos of a man talking with another in one; then of the same man walking into a dark licence-less car; and another of him clearly looking at the camera. Betty’s heart is pounding, her eyes are going over every detail, hoping she’s making a mistake but.

It’s hard to mistake the man who indirectly raised you.

_“Uh, Betty?”_

Mister H.

Betty’s palms hurt. Her fingers have dug so deep she’s pretty sure that’s blood dripping between them. She can’t move, can’t look away, can’t speak. Can’t fucking believe what she’s seeing. Of all the things to come and haunt her…

“Betty?”

Lionel Burond is Mister H.

The man who had a professional assassin firm under his thumb wants Bianca. Wants it so bad he’s willing to kill both Lodge women for it. The man who took everything from the Organisation with him – resources, funds, countless people – and disappeared wants her girl deader than dead.

_Oh God._

Hands are cradling her face. She blinks and brown worried eyes fill her sight. A thumb is tracing something wet over her cheeks – when had she started crying? Is she so close to breaking she’s started to cry?

“Where did you go?”

_“Would you go back?”_ swims in her head.

“We have a problem,” Betty croaks, voice as fragile as it’s ever been.

Lionel Burond is Mister H.

And Betty has no idea where to find him.

\----

“Tell me again why we’re here?” Betty asks as they round the corner of the darkest alley they could find in this town (which says something since it’s noon) and find the most extra dramatic entrance for a non-descript non-store. And honestly Betty’s not even fazed. She’s not even raising her brow curiously at this place. She’s just. So Done. With today especially.

“Jones said this guy’s insistent that he had some of dad’s files, which –” Veronica wages the odds on her hands, making a dubious face. “It’s very close to being 100% bullshit. But then again Jones is good at filtering out the bullshit. And he told me about this _in person._ So…”

“So here we are,” Betty finishes.

“Yeah.”

“In front of a door to a non-shop in basically Shady Town.”

“…Yeah.” Veronica shrugs, looking up apologetically.

Betty doesn’t like this. She knocks on the door all the same.

Surprisingly it opens. Yes it is surprising. They both thought this was a ruse to lure them out and make them easy targets. Betty’s still feeling something off, especially with the way the guy – the contact, Regis – how he’s looking at them. And then the two security guards trailing after them. And with how he’s avoiding answering any of Veronica’s questions. And how he’s just leading them to an upstairs room through a narrow hall – so narrow Betty can barely stretch her arms without her fingers hitting the walls.

And the crème-del-a-crème of it all: He wants to speak with Veronica. Alone. 1-on-1.

_Hello, Elizabeth Cooper? Yeah, cool, we have a crate full of red flags for ya. Special delivery from Regis Whoever-The-Fuck. Will that be cash or credit card?_

Betty steps forward, instinctually putting herself between Regis and Veronica. She doesn’t miss how the two guards reach for their weapons – knives of all things, and poorly hidden ones at that. They should’ve gotten bigger shirts so the knives wouldn’t press into their suits.

Regis raises his hands, placating. “I’m not hiding anything in the room, all right.”

“And I’m the Queen of the Isles’ Empire,” Betty bites back immediately.

“Well, long live etcetera, etcetera.” He glares at Betty, then looks to Veronica. “Either this or bust, Miss Lodge. Your choice.”

“Well then go –”

Veronica’s hand stops Betty mid turn. Betty sends her an incredulous look, blatant and easy to read because she can’t believe Veronica’s doing this, can’t believe she’s putting herself in such obvious danger. Can’t believe she’s giving her a look that both says _“sorry”_ and _“trust me.”_

She just. Can’t believe.

So there she stands, on the other side of the meeting room door, confused and irritated and barely keeping herself from shoving the two guards into the walls and breaking down the door and beating Regis Whoever with a fucking stick –

_Breathe. One two three._

She’s not having a good day, okay? Just drop it.

She’ll just silently glare at the guards and wait. In silence. Utter silence.

It’s so silent that the sound of something falling in the meeting room echoes like a roar.

Betty raises her brows at the guards, expecting them to react. They look back at her through their sunglasses. Unmoving. Unflinching as another sound comes from the room, much like the first.

Then another and Betty’s fingers are twitching, her feet are itching and her chest hurts at the thought of Veronica being in there alone and _she doesn’t know what’s going on – what are those noises, what’s breaking, who’s breaking and on whom is it being broken –_

It’s at the sound of glass shattering that Betty’s had enough. Screw Guard #1 and #2 and they impassiveness. Screw them and Regis if Veronica’s hurt. _Especially_ Regis. Betty moves forward and the speed with which the two guards spring to action make her sorta jealous.

Their inability to coordinate with their knives and each other dampens that jealousy. They do give her some trouble – one manages to slice up her jacket sleeve and the other does try to get behind her and choke her. But it all ends with one getting pinned to the floor with four knives and the other gets tackled through the door.

After they fall through the door, raining splinters around them, Betty gives the guard a good kick in the head it breaks his sunglasses fully. High on adrenaline Betty looks around the room, never stopping at one place too long, looking for Veronica. Then the adrenaline drains from her like emptying a bucket of cold water.

Veronica, sweet darling Veronica, is sitting atop Regis, surrounded by broken glass, and looking dishevelled and wild and there’s – there’s blood on her face. Scratch that there’s a cut on her face and on her arm and she’s got – She’s got a gun. A gun pointed at Regis. A gun held in shaky hands pointed at Regis, who looks properly fucked up.

And Veronica looks ready to shoot him.

Betty slowly walks over. Her hearts pounding so hard she’s afraid it’ll spook Veronica and then Regis’ll eat bullets. She’s not doing it so much for him. It’s Veronica. Her eyes are on Veronica only.

“Veronica.” The woman snaps her eyes up – wild, energetic, fiery brown eyes. She’s on the edge, ready to snap and end Regis right then and there. Was she like this in the park, while Betty was fighting her assailant? Was she like this on the hit that nearly took her mother?

Is the anger always there, simmering under the surface and waiting for the opportunity to snap and consume?

No. No no no no _no_

“Veronica, hey.”

She can’t let Veronica do that. She can’t let her burn out in that fire. She can’t let her do that to herself.

“Hey. Hey, look at me please?” Betty’s crouching down next to Regis’ head. The man’s whimpering, so softly it’s easy to ignore. Absolutely terrified. Betty spares him a glance and – Veronica did all of that?

She can’t let Veronica become someone like _her_.

“Hey, Ronnie?” Betty whispers, slowly raising her hand, keeping it close to the edges Veronica’s sight so she wouldn’t get startled. She waits for any sign she should stop. Her fingers graze Veronica’s chin and she’s shaking. “Ronnie, look at me.”

Veronica does and. There are tears gathering in her eyes. Frustrated tears.

“Give me the gun, please.” Betty raises her other hand, palm up. “Come on. Nice and slow. You can do it.”

Veronica looks down. She inhales and her fingers loosen around the gun but she’s not moving. She’s shaking more visibly now, so much Betty nearly misses the shake of her head.

“I –” Veronica’s voice breaks off.

“Yes, you can. Just, just lay it down in my palm, okay? You don’t have to let go, okay?” Betty’s close to pleading, close to crying right along with her. Wouldn’t that be a sight?

As soon as Veronica drops the gun, Betty scoops her up in her arms, shushing and whispering how proud she is, that Veronica did the right thing. Veronica’s sobs are silent. Her blood sticks to Betty’s neck.

When he gets up, Betty punches Regis in the face for good measure. The man falls down, out like a light. She doesn’t ask what happened, whether he had real information or not. Veronica will tell her when she’s processed it.

Right now she’s got her wrapped up in Betty’s jacket, and they’re on their way to a good restaurant with quality desserts. Veronica doesn’t let go of her hand during the entire trip. Betty doesn’t have the will to point it out. The both need it.

\----

Betty finds Lionel Burond just on the onset of winter.

Or rather he finds her.

She should’ve seen it coming. A man like Burond (or is it Mister H?) keeps tabs on when someone’s looking for him. Miss Grey used to say it’s how he stayed at the top of the Organisation. It’s probably why he made the Organisation in the first place.

Her flat is too quiet when she walks in. There aren’t even hints of the sound of Furball trying to beat the grocery bag (he’s been doing that all week.) And then there’s the silence from the street, suffocating in the darkness.

Betty goes for her gun when the first punch lands. She raises her own hands but they’re held down by two others. She roars, slamming her shoulder into the nearest one, sending them into the makeshift wall right next to the door. She tries to yank her other arm free, tries to send an elbow where she thinks her assailant is. It does connect with something and the hands around her forearm loosen. Something metallic slams against her neck and before she can recoil there’s a surge through her body, locking her limbs and numbing her tongue.

The next thing she sees is a grey room, rust collecting where the floor meets the metallic walls. Blue neon lights decorate the walls, acting as a spotlight for the one and only Mr Burond. Mr H himself, looking old and grey.

“Elizabeth, it’s so good to see you again,” he starts, legs crossed, wearing a white-ish suit (it’s hard to figure out the nuances with blue neon light shining in your face.) He’s got that same smile he wore every time he saw her sneaking about – pleased and indulgent. She can pick up ridicule underneath that.

“Mister H,” Betty grits out, tongue still a bit heavy in her mouth. Her face hurts where she’s been punched, and her chest flares up at every odd intake. “Or is it Mister Burond these days? Hard to keep track of a ghost.”

“It warms my heart that you haven’t died. It’d be a shame, really,” he grins wickedly, all sharp edges. “You were among my best.”

“Is that why I’m here.” Betty flexes her restraints – simple thick rope. He did love the nostalgic feeling of it. He’s the one who taught her how to tie up the knot currently keeping her in place. “So we’d have a chat? For old time’s sake? Swap stories of failed assassination attempts and near death experiences?”

“If you like.”

“I like to have my hands free.”

He shakes his head as if the mere thought of it inconvenienced him. “We can’t have that. You’d just break Rick’s nose again. Although it is an improvement.”

Betty glares, jaw clenched.

His smiles drops. “Actually I came here regarding your latest job. The Lodge girl.”

Betty’s chest hurts for a different reason, eyes narrow and lips thin. She doesn’t dare say anything. It’ll end up a shouting match if she does.

“I’m willing to offer you a vastly better alternative.” He spreads his arms in a grand gesture.

Betty feels sick at the implications. Feels sick at the thought of seeing Veronica one morning, following her to work, luring her into the rooftop garden and – and

And shoot her in the back, with the gun you always carry. In the back so she wouldn’t notice, would suspect something’s amiss. (So you wouldn’t have to look at the hurt, the _betrayal_ in her eyes.)

But she would suspect, wouldn’t she? She’d wonder why you’re so quiet, so withdrawn, so pensive. And you’d play it off, blame tiredness. She’s so stresses these days she’d likely accept that at face value.

It would be so easy.

“ _Would you go back?”_

_Oh God, it’d be so easy._

Is this what dying feels like? Seeing Veronica lying before her, shirt strained red and a pool of it forming around her, eyes unseeing and – Oh God, Betty’s pretty sure she’s dying right now. She’s pretty sure her heart’s about to fall out of her chest and she wants to scream. To break her binds and scream at the man – Lionel. Burond, H, whoever the fuck he thinks he is – for forcing her to see that. For making her plot it out.

For reminding her she’s been made into this – this thing that only kills. Kills and feels nothing afterward.

“ _Would you go back?”_

_No._

“Really, Elizabeth?” Betty focuses on the man again, Veronica dissipating like fog. Instead of her pale face, Betty sees Burond’s scowl, clearly displeased and eyes shining with something dangerously dark.

He leans forward, elbows in his knees. “You’d rather waste your talents on this stint as a bodyguard for that Lodge girl?”

“Fuck you.” Betty spits. Not a second passes, and she’s pulled by her messy hair. She forgot the other three people in the room. They’ve been perfectly silent. Like perfect little lap dogs. _You mean like you were?_

“Loyal, ever loyal, aren’t you, Elizabeth? You do know you’re nothing to her, don’t you?” He’s slowly approaching now, hands kept behind his back. Betty’s managed to twist her hand enough to slip one of the knots loose. Not enough to free her, but enough for her to have some room.

He stops, shadowing her face from most of the lights. “You’re just another bodyguard to her. Just another paycheck. The Lodges don’t care about their _grunts_ ,” he hisses the word out, seething, like he’s been mellowing on this for a long time. Possibly since Hiram Lodge.

And maybe Hiram didn’t care. But Veronica, Hermione? They care. They care a hell of a lot more than any of her tutors, of her mentors besides Max. They treat their people as people, not tools. Veronica wouldn’t have wasted 3 hours reorganising their schedule when she leaned Jughead’s sister has a play and Jughead needs to be there. She wouldn’t waste resources to have Archie’s family relocated to a better, safer place after the Organisation fell. She wouldn’t threaten several people so Kevin could make it to his 1-year anniversary.

She wouldn’t call the Alsakov’s Centre to make sure Jason has everything he needs.

Veronica Lodge cares so fucking much it’s tearing her at the seams.

_You’re in too deep, Cooper._

“ _Would you go back?”_

Betty thinks of brown tired eyes lighting up upon seeing her; thinks about that small, indulgent smile. Thinks about how stupid she’s been for ignoring how much she loves this woman.

_One two three._

_Never._

“Let me rephrase myself.” Betty smiles, circling her other wrist so she’s got the rope taunt as far as it can go. She feels a laugh bubbling inside, threatening to overwhelm her and become something wild, something high-pitched and free.

“Fuck. You.”

With a wild smile and a swift kick all hell breaks loose.

\----

When she barrels through the door, hand clutching at her gut and the other hanging limply at her side, Betty’s struck by one thought.

_The fucking river._

It’s fitting, really it is, that Burond took her on a boat. He knew of her fear of rivers. Knew that even if she managed to win against three of his agents she’d be in no shape to swim the fast currents to reach shore and find her way back.

With the way she’s wobbling to the rail, he was right. And now he’s dead. (His own knife stuck in his throat, his knees shot out and that white suit stained red.) Funny how that works.

_You could die here too._

She might’ve tried steering the boat, if the controls didn’t have a Rick-sized hole in them with a human sized Rick slammed into another control panel nearby.

Betty’s hand misses the rail, or it slips or something – she doesn’t know. All she knows is that she’s tired – so fucking tired – and she just wants to go home. She wants to go home to Furball, go home so she could find Polly again, go home and –

And see Veronica again.

Cold water slams against her face, numbs her growing bruises, and the chill seeps into her bones until she’s rattling like a kid’s toy.

Is this what dying feels like?

Because Betty’s confident she’s dying this time.

At least she felt something when she killed Burond.

_Satisfaction._

\----

Her nose itches.

No matter how much she twitches it she can’t seem to get it to stop, and her arms feel heavy –why do they feel heavy? Has she overdone it with her workout? She can’t remember, it’s all blurry.

Then her nose itches again and – oh, there’s something ticking it, just the tip, just irritating enough when she inhales. It seems to vanish when she’s about to swat at it – is she though? Her hands twitch but they feel like dead weight. God she feels like Max has run her through the extreme drills, until she was practically passed out from exhaustion and slipping on her own sweat. Like that preliminary exam for Mister H.

Mister H.

Lionel Burond.

_“Elizabeth, it’s so good to see you again.”_

She remembers.

Her eyes snap open, her mind lagging behind and pushing through the drowsiness and confusion. She remembers. That white suit stained with blue lights. That fucking arrogant smile he gave her, how he talked like she still worked for him, like she was back at the Organisation and barely making it into _Agent Cooper_ – like she wasn’t anything other than little Elizabeth, loyal, stupid, obedient.

And God what he’d said: the offer, the threat, the reminder that she, that he – he was – he was going to make her –

Veronica. Veronica, where is – is she – she couldn’t be _please no there was so much blood and chaos and – and please no tell her she didn’t_

“Betty!”

Veronica. That’s – that’s Veronica’s voice. As clear and as vibrant as Betty remembers. Her eyes snaps around, seeing but unseeing the room she’s in – it doesn’t matter where she is, what matters is –

Veronica. Standing to her left. Standing there with hands covering her mouth and wet eyes and tired – God she looks so tired, why does she do that to herself, why doesn’t she take better care of herself? It hurts to see her like that. It hurts to see her because she’s _there_ – alive, well, breathing, safe.

_She’s safe._

And Burond’s dead.

And Betty’s so relieved she could cry. She could laugh and cry because that’s what Veronica’s doing – because Burond didn’t get to this beautiful woman who gives so much, didn’t stain that lovely smile with blood, didn’t make Betty see the life slip away from those watery brown eyes.

She could kiss her right here and right now and she _wouldn’t care._

“God, Betty.” Veronica’s laughing but every odd one ends in a hiccup. She’s cradling Betty’s hand against her cheek – which she must’ve raised in all of that haze of emotions.

“When Reginald –” veronica starts but a sob breaks through. She sniffs, trying to hold back tears fruitlessly. “When Reggie called and said he found you in the river, I – I didn’t know what to do, I couldn’t stand still. But when he brought you in you –”

Her hand tightens against Betty’s, desperate. She’s looking down, trying to compose herself, and Betty’s heart aches anew. “You looked so pale that I – I thought you were dead. That we’re too late and you – you – I couldn’t move couldn’t do _anything_.”

“I’m here,” Betty says shakily and yep the tears are falling down her cheeks and she doesn’t care because Veronica’s nodding her head and still refusing to look at her.

“Ronnie, I’m here.” And Veronica does look up at the nickname, eyes big and frightened but relieved, so relieved. How much is she letting herself feel? “I’m alive, and maybe not all right, but –” Betty stresses and she’s trying to get up, at least to sit up and her stomach is killing her with pain.

But Veronica’s there to help, right next to her, so close Betty can smell her perfume and something inherently Veronica and she can and can’t breathe. She has to try anyway.

“I may not be all right now, but I will be. You didn’t lose me.” She snatches Veronica’s hand – partially because it’s distracting her where it was on her stomach and Betty doesn’t want to be distracted from her right now.

Not when Veronica’s leaning her forehead against Betty’s, still shaking with hiccups but smiling so wide. Not when she’s so close, her lips are so close and Betty would very much like to kiss her.

So much she apparently says it out loud, because Veronica’s moved away. She’s moved away and her eyes are searching. But just as Betty’s about to apologise, Veronica leans back in –

And the kiss, the feeling of Veronica’s lips on hers, the soft sigh and the gentle caress on her cheek – it feels like home.

_You’re in too deep, Cooper._

She tangles her hand into brown locks and pulls her back in and – yeah, she’d rather drown in Veronica Lodge.

\-----

They’re running late. (Well actually they’re not supposed to be at base today but Betty refuses to spend another day in bed, studiously ignores the looks Veronica’s sending her, and Veronica does have to make sure the apartments are in one piece. Despite the probability of Bianca lying to them being closer to 0, there’s only so much freedom agents should have in one go.)

So they’re storming through the building, as fast as Betty’s healing wound allows, and looking for any signs of damage – so far they’ve only found one room overgrown with plants and thankfully Veronica deduced they’re a type of rose before they even had to enter that mess.

“What a waste,” Veronica murmurs but pulls Betty along all the same.

“Betty!” Figures that they’d be holed up in the second floor lounge room. It also figures that Mantle would be the one to notice them walking by – the man is frighteningly observant underneath that carefree attitude. “You never mentioned you have a sister.”

A sister? There’s only one person she’d even consider to be a sister but she’s –

She’s here – there – sitting in one of the lounge armchairs, smiling and tired and her hair’s a bit frazzled but she’s there – _she’s here._

_Polly._

“Hey Betts.” Polly says after Betty practically barrels into her, crashing into a tight hug. Her voice is shaky, her fingers are tight and grounding and she smells of ash and antiseptic. “What’s this I hear about you cultivating a roof garden?”

Betty sees Veronica’s incredulous look, sees her mouthing _I cannot believe_ , and laughs deep and rich.


End file.
